


The Floor Is Lava

by perfectlystill



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, I think. I can never judge how slow something should be to qualify as Slow Burn., New Girl au, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2020-09-08 02:08:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 93,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20276125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill
Summary: The Ad reads:ROOMMATEWANTEDNEEDEDFour Bedroom, One Bathroom Loft. 1600 Sq. Feet. Non-smoker Preferred.Unless of the Mary Jane Variety, then smoker preferred. No, still not preferred. Clean, courteous, and coherent.Bonus if you have a dog. No pets.Contact us atFlashMob69@starkmail.comMichelleJones@starkmail.com.Rent negotiated at time of offer.Serious Inquiries only.Thank you.New Girl AU





	1. one

Peter is fucked.

Colloquially, not literally, like he was hoping. 

Felicia expressed a desire for more spontaneity and fun in both their relationship and the bedroom. Peter figured taking an early flight out of Ohio, where he goes every summer to help grade the AP chemistry free response questions, was a good start. He picks up flowers and ridiculously expensive, cheap chocolates at the airport before hailing a cab to take him back to their apartment, hoping to surprise her.

Spoiler alert: he’s the one who’s surprised. 

By the naked guy lounging on the couch when he opens the door. 

“Ready for round two?” Felicia calls. Peter hears her clearly through the ajar bedroom door. 

His suitcase with the broken wheel tips over and onto his big toe. He drops the box of chocolates. (It’s sealed, so they don’t scatter, but later, when Liz helps him open them while he cries on her couch, a few are magically broken. Peter doesn’t know if it’s the universe being cliche or simply an extra sign that he paid far too much for cheap chocolates in cheap packaging.) He crushes the stems of the flowers in his palm and throws them at Felicia. They’re not aerodynamic, and they fall uselessly by his feet. 

Peter picks up the chocolates, grabs his suitcase, and leaves. 

“Two weeks,” Liz says.

Peter gawks. “Why?”

“You want to sleep on my couch for longer than two weeks?”

He opens his mouth.

“You’re not sleeping in my bed.”

He closes his mouth. 

The Ad reads: 

ROOMMATE <strike>WANTED</strike> NEEDED

Four Bedroom, One Bathroom Loft. 1600 Sq. Feet. Non-smoker Preferred. <strike>Unless of the Mary Jane Variety, then smoker preferred</strike>. No, still not preferred. Clean, courteous, and coherent. <strike>Bonus if you have a dog</strike>. No pets.

Contact us at <strike>FlashMob69@starkmail.com</strike> MichelleJones@starkmail.com.

Rent negotiated at time of offer.

Serious Inquiries only.

<strike>Thank you.</strike>

Peter’s three potential roommates stare at him. 

Flash has a mean wrinkle between his eyebrows, Ned hums and nods semi-encouragingly at everything Peter says, and Michelle folds her hands in her lap, her entire face smooth but reminiscent of the mean wrinkle between Flash’s eyebrows. 

In two days it’ll be the two weeks Liz gave Peter. 

He’s desperate.

“So, uh, that’s why I really need this, you know? I was cheated on, and she still has the French press I bought, and my back hurts from my friend Liz’s couch, and--”

“Who’s Liz?” Flash interrupts. 

“My best friend.” A beat. “And I’m really considerate and will help clean, and this place looks really great. I have good references and--”

“What does this Liz look like?” Flash asks. 

Ned elbows him in the side, and Michelle says, “Jar.”

Flash grumbles, shifting to reach into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet and handing a five to Michelle, who reaches over, placing the cash in a half-full mason jar with a piece of cardstock taped to the outside that reads: DOUCHEBAG JAR.

Then, like nothing unusual happened, all three of them refocus on Peter. 

Ned offers a thumbs up.

“So, I guess, that’s all,” Peter finishes.

“That’s a yes!” Ned says, nodding an inordinate number of times. 

“He’s a little dweeby,” Flash says at the same time. 

Both of them look to Michelle. She shrugs. “We should check his references.”

Ned pumps his fist into the air and screams, “Yes!”

Flash says, “Meeting. Now.”

Michelle rolls her eyes but follows both men through the open living room and kitchen as they argue: “_Star Wars_ is not a personality trait.” “Dude! It shows good taste.” “It shows nerd taste, and you two are already filling the quota in this apart-- Ow! MJ!”

Peter hears them scuttle, and it sounds like they’ve knocked something over. He wipes underneath his eyes, and embarrassment warms itself on his face, rolling in his stomach. He cried when Michelle first asked why he was looking for a new place (“If you’re being kicked out of your old apartment for not paying rent or by someone for leaving toenail clippings in the living room, we need to know”). 

It’s not the best first impression, especially because that’s what he intended to do, impress them. 

Instead, Peter swallowed, blinked in the face of Michelle’s unblinking face, and cried.

_God_. He scrubs his palms up, over his brow and back through his three-day old hair. 

Peter expects a hard no. Flash and Michelle will outvote Ned, and he’ll be stuck begging Liz to give him more time. She will, but there’s a knot forming in Peter’s lower back from her couch, similar to the one in his heart when a song comes on the radio that reminds him of Felicia. 

(Every song reminds him of Felicia.)

He’s seen five other places in two weeks. He got rejected from a two-room flat with mold in the bathroom grouting. The tenant explained they couldn’t use the microwave and the oven at the same time, and thirty minutes later gave Peter a pat on the back, kindly telling him he was too depressing. 

Michelle comes back first, Ned and Flash following like kindergarten students forming a line behind their teacher on the way to the playground.

“We’ll call you,” she says, and then she turns around, heading back from the direction she came.

“Oh, okay,” Peter says to her hunched, retreating form. 

Flash huffs, hands stuffed into his pockets, walking by Peter and slamming a door to another room, but not before depositing a few more bills into the jar. 

“I guess I’ll just…” Peter stands, wringing his hands. “...go.”

“The odds are in your favor,” Ned says like a magic 8-ball, slow smile spreading across his face.

Peter gets a text: _im about to call u_

He picks up. “Hello?”

“Dude!” Ned’s voice rings in Peter’s ear. “You’re in!”

“I’m in?”

“Yeah, as long as you can give MJ your aunt’s vegan lasagna recipe.”

“Um, yeah, totally.” He doesn’t have the recipe, and he almost asks how MJ -- Michelle -- knows about it. But then he remembers May was his first reference, followed by Liz, and then the school’s principal, Mr. Harrington. “I can get it.”

“Awesome!”

“Yeah, awesome. Thanks.”

Peter sprawls on the sofa like a starfish, his skin dry and patchy, bowl of popcorn rising and falling slightly on his stomach as he breathes. He steadies it with one hand and stares at the television, zoning in and out like he’s underwater, only half-hearing and half-seeing Baby and Johnny.

He _is_ too depressing. 

In Peter’s defense, the naked guy moved into his old apartment with Felicia, and he really needed to hear “(I’ve had) The Time of My Life” on Flash’s surround sound television.

“This is pathetic,” Flash says.

“I got dumped a few months ago, and I’m fine,” Michelle adds from the table behind the couch. Peter can’t see her, but he hears her laptop keys click clack without pause. She’s pressing too hard. 

“No, you’re not,” Ned says, flopping down and jostling Peter’s feet. The popcorn bowl tilts and a kernel rolls out, nudges itself between the back of the couch and the cushion. 

Michelle doesn’t say anything, but Peter squints up at Ned flipping her off, so Peter assumes it’s a two-way gesture. He’s been here a week, and he’s learned that Ned can get away with it, but Flash tried once, and the next day his body lotion was replaced with Nair. 

“If you’re so fine, then just ask Harry to add us to the guest list,” Flash says. 

“No.”

“Exactly.” 

Peter turns back to the television, but he can’t hear anything because Flash is blending a smoothie in the food processor. It doesn’t matter. This is Peter’s second pass through the film today. 

“Hey,” Ned says, nudging Peter’s legs. “We should all go out tonight.”

Peter blinks, head still foggy. 

“No,” Michelle’s voice breaks through. 

“Just because you’re not acting like a sad sack the same way Penis is, it doesn’t mean you’re not also being a sad sack,” Flash says. 

Penis is a truly juvenile nickname Flash gave him the second he signed the lease. Michelle’s response, “Did you miss nap time today?” made Peter snort. She didn’t smile at him, but it was a near thing, and he figured between her and Ned, well, it wouldn’t be so bad having to share a bathroom with Flash. 

“Come on, Peter. You need to get out there. We can get a drink and sing karaoke and have a good time,” Ned says. 

“I’m good here,” Peter decides, trying to sink further into the sofa.

“Dude, no, you’re not. If I have to hear ‘(I’ve Had the) Time of My Life’ one more time I’m going to break the TV.”

“Don’t be a loser,” Flash adds. “Your ex is already knocking boots with someone way hotter than you.”

“Wait, what?” Peter scrambles up onto his elbows.

“The guy she’s hooking up with is hotter than you,” Flash says before taking a loud slurp of his smoothie. 

“No, he isn’t,” Ned reassures.

“How do you know who he is?”

“MJ retconned you,” Flash says. 

“She what?” Peter pulls himself into a full sitting position, eyeing Michelle over the back of the couch.

She shrugs, leaning toward her laptop, not bothering to look at him. “I don’t trust just anybody to share my space.”

“You don’t share space,” Flash argues. 

“Not with you.”

Ned claps his hands; one loud slap. “Sounds like we’re all in!”

“Never said that,” MJ says.

“Come on, don’t you want to watch Flash get rejected by everybody he hits on?”

She hums, types and agrees: “Yeah, actually, I do.”

“Peter?” Ned asks, turning to him. His eyes are wide and hopeful, and Peter can already tell saying _No_ to him is going to become a problem. 

He says, “Yeah, alright.” 

Peter washed his hair, the bar is cozy, and Michelle gets them a 30% employee discount on drinks. 

He feels better even before his first sip of the pink, fruity concoction that tastes like a jolly rancher, but he feels _really_ super good after that. He squishes against Ned in a booth, watching Flash hit on a pretty girl, her pierced eyebrow arching, unimpressed. 

“And then I’m like, ‘Bada bing, bada boom,’ you know?” Flash asks.

The girls blinks. “No.”

“Okay, so I was in my summer home in Italy,” Flash starts again, speaking slower than before. 

Ned groans. “He’s more of an idiot than I thought.”

“Yeah,” Peter laughs.

Flash tells his entire story again, verbatim: “Bada bing, bada boom.”

“Hey,” Ned says. 

Peter’s chin rests in his palm as he watches Flash self-destruct. 

“Hey,” Ned repeats right when the girl opens her mouth to reject Flash again, likely in a brutal, verbose way that’ll cut to the quick the same way MJ does, if the girl’s squint and tilting mouth is anything to go by. 

“What?” Peter asks, shaking his head. 

MJ slides into the booth on the opposite side of Peter, says, “That guy over there is totally checking you out.”

“Huh?”

“Four o’clock.” Peter turns his head. “Your other four o’clock.”

The guy is cute, leaning against the bar with a beer from the tap, foam melting against the side of the glass the same way his gaze melts over Peter. 

Peter feels his own drink swirl warm and strong in his stomach. He takes another sip, slurping up the dregs of the fruity concoction and praying for the liquid to turn into courage or charm or some other word that feels less like the dread and anxiety sparking at the idea of having to flirt with somebody, of putting himself out there again after Felicia pierced his heart with her stiletto and the air drained from his balloon. 

He’s mixing his metaphors. 

The alcohol must be working. 

“How do I look?” he asks. 

MJ says, “Ehhhhh.”

Ned frowns, reaching out to try and fix his hair. He leans back, cocks his head and closes one eye. “Good.” Thumbs up.

“Okay,” Peter says. “Okay, Okay, Okay, I got this.”

“You got this, dude.”

“I got this.” He slides out of the booth, stands and wipes his palms against his jeans.

“You got this,” Ned repeats.

“I got this.”

“You got this.”

“I got--”

“I will disembowel you both if you don’t go over there immediately,” MJ says, flat and serious. 

“Okay.”

Ned nods, shooting him two thumbs up this time.

Peter approaches the cute guy and stumbles when he tries to lean against the bar. He holds out his hand. “Hi, I’m Peter.”

“Cam.” He shakes Peter’s hand.

It’s warm and nice, and Peter feels emboldened by the contact. “Like from _Modern Family_.”

“I’ve never watched that.”

“God, sorry.”

“It’s okay, Peter.” Cam says his name like some sort of seductive slam poetry, emphasized, soft and smooth and almost rehearsed. “What’re you drinking?”

He doesn’t know. 

“I don’t know.”

Cam laughs, and it’s warm and nice and rehearsed just like everything else, but Peter doesn’t mind. He’s not looking for true love, or a soulmate, or anything else inherently romantic. It’s hard for him to disconnect those things from sidling up next to someone at a bar, from flirting and from dating. His mind naturally rolls down the road, a tumbleweed picking up sticks and dirt, taking something small and turning it into something large. But his wound is still fresh, so he tries to temper it, stop the wind from blowing and stay in the present. 

Even if the present is a bar that smells a little bit like weed and axe body spray. 

Cam buys him a frozen margarita that Peter sips too quickly, causing brain-freeze. They exchange numbers, and before Peter falls asleep, alone in his own bed, lovingly tucked in by Ned with a kiss to his forehead, Peter and Cam set up a date at a nice restaurant.

The tumbleweed collects some more dust. 

When Peter tells Ned, Michelle, and Flash about the date the next day over a too strong cup of coffee, Flash laughs, exaggerated, throwing his head back.

Peter frowns. “What?” 

“Cam is a total player.”

“What? No. He’s nice.”

“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive,” Michelle says. She slathers a concerning amount of butter onto her toast. It can’t be good for her arteries. 

“You all encouraged me to find a rebound, so I don’t know why I’m being judged.”

“Not judged.”

Ned scrolls through Peter’s phone. “You sent like … 20 texts in a row.”

“So?

Michelle snorts. 

“Only serial killers do that,” Flash says. 

“Really?” Peter scrunches his eyebrows together. “I was just trying not to censor myself.”

Flash says, “Always censor yourself.”

Ned says, “Flash actually has a point.”

“I think it’s kind of nice,” Michelle counters. “Pretending to be less interested than you are, or lying just so you appeal to somebody? Waiting thirty minutes to reply? It’s stupid.”

“Thank you.” Peter tosses her a smile, the ceramic in his palms warm as he brings the cup to his mouth to take another sip of coffee. 

She rolls her eyes, and Peter’s teeth clink against the mug as his grin widens.

“I wouldn’t take MJ’s word for it. She got dumped months ago, but won’t ask her ex to get us into the party we go to every year despite claiming she’s over it.”

“Correction: _you_ go every year.”

“You and Harry went last year.”

MJ’s jaw clenches. “You know what? Fine.”

“What?”

“I’ll text him.”

“Really?” Flash’s eyes go wide and hopeful. He slaps his palms together like he’s praying. “Oh, god, MJ, thank you so much. You don’t know how embarrassing it would be if all my friends went and then I wasn't there and the stories I would miss and the girls in bikinis and guys in briefs and--”

“You’re not allowed to give me shit about Harry ever again,” she says. 

“You have my word, oh my god, I promise to never even speak of him, MJ. You are a goddess.” Flash jumps up, reaching across the counter and trying to grab at MJ’s face, lips puckered. 

“Ew, get off me, Eugene,” she drops her toast, buttered side down, onto the counter and pushes Flash away. 

“Jar?” Peter offers.

“No,” Ned and MJ say.

Flash says, “Fuck off, Parker.”

“Hold on!” Peter calls, two shirts folded over his forearm, suit jacket hanging off one shoulder, hair damp from his shower and dripping onto said suit jacket. 

Fuck. 

Liz knocks with impatience. 

Peter pulls open the loft’s front door and heaves a grateful exhale. “Thank god you’re here.”

Liz quirks an eyebrow, leaning around Peter to get her first view of his new place. “Looks cozy.”

“Yeah, sure, it’s fine. I have to leave in 30 minutes, and I realized I don’t know what is appropriate first date …” Peter trails off, searching for the word when Michelle exits her room, shutting the door behind her and stepping into the living space. Her skirt swishes around her knees like waves lapping at a beach. “... clothes.”

“What?” Michelle asks.

Peter swallows. “You look nice.”

She shrugs, rolling her eyes in a way he is slowly but surely becoming accustomed. One day, he thinks, he might be able to read all the different meanings, the nuances in her seemingly similar gestures. “Flash told me if he’s going to be seen with me, I have to look acceptable. Ned said, and I quote, ‘Make Harry eat shit.’”

“Well, uh, I think he will.”

“Thanks.”

“Hi, I’m Liz,” she introduces herself and holds out her hand.

“MJ.”

“Sorry,” Peter apologizes with one shake of his head. He remakes the introduction despite it being unnecessary. “Liz is my best friend.”

“The one who evicted you,” Michelle says.

“Tough love,” Liz clarifies. She thumbs at the shirts dangling over Peter’s arm. “You shouldn’t wear a suit jacket. It’s too formal. Also, this pattern is disgusting.” She pulls the first button-down away. “And you’ll spill something on it if you wear the white one. It’s like, a law.”

“Right.” Peter nods. 

“Let’s see if there’s anything else in your closet.” She grabs Peter’s hand, tugging him by Michelle with a nod. “Nice to meet you.”

Liz tosses the two shirts Peter waffled between onto his desk chair, and he tugs the jacket off his shoulder, adding it to the pile. Liz opens his closet door with flair, and with her back to him, says: “You should’ve told me MJ was attracted to you. That’s like, the first thing you should have said about this apartment. Not that your door sticks sometimes and you’re afraid you’ll be locked in your room forever.”

“What?” Peter blinks.

“This is perfect.” Liz pulls a navy dress shirt Peter hasn’t worn in months off a hanger before tossing it at him. 

Peter fumbles the catch. “I’m sorry. Michelle what?”

“Put that on, and then we’ll deal with your hair.”

“Liz,” Peter says, more confused than stern. 

“What? We both know you feel bad not using your teacher discount at the gym.”

“I can’t even tell if Michelle doesn’t hate me half the time, how can you say she likes me? You said maybe five words to each other.”

“I didn’t say she likes you. I said she’s attracted to you. But yeah, she likes you, too.”

“What?” 

“Women’s intuition.”

Peter huffs. “That’s not even a real thing.”

“Sure it is.” Liz shrugs. “You’re wasting time arguing with me when I’m right.”

“You’re wrong.”

Liz tuts, raising both her eyebrows, so Peter works open the buttons on the ill-fitting top he tried on underneath the suit jacket earlier.

“Are you trying to get me kicked out or something? I haven’t even lived here a month, and you’re creating weird gossipy lies.” Peter shucks the shirt off his shoulders, widens his eyes, and makes an emphasizing gesture with his hand. It causes the sleeve to get caught when he tries to tug if off. “I’m about to go on a date. This is the worst time to tell me someone else thinks I’m attractive.”

“Or maybe I’m just trying to remind you that you are attractive.” Peter opens his mouth. “Shut up. Confidence is key.”

He shakes his head, pulling on the Liz-approved shirt. “You’re increasing my anxiety. You know I overthink stuff like this.”

One side of her mouth lifts up into that soft, closed-mouth smile that used to give Peter butterflies. “I’m sorry. But you’ll be fine. This will be good for you.”

“Or I could cancel and we could watch _Dirty Dancing_?”

“Nice try, but no.”

Liz fixes Peter’s hair, sets it with spray that he guesses she steals from Flash’s bathroom cabinet. It holds everything in place but doesn’t make the strands clump together, dry and crusty. Peter prays Flash doesn't somehow notice; he’d definitely charge for it.

Liz gives him a tight hug and sends him on his way with a kiss on the cheek, standing on the F train platform, like when he was little and May sent him off to school by himself for the first time.

Peter’s stomach flip flops, and he waits just inside the restaurant's door, sending Cam a text. When Cam doesn’t respond, Peter gets a table. 

Sends eight … nine more texts. 

Ten, a nice even number.

Thirty minutes later, when the waitress is filling up his water glass for the second time, the once fresh bread going cold on the table, she gives him a pitying look. “Did you want to order?”

“No, I’ll wait.”

The look she sends him now is even worse. 

Peter believes Cam is coming. If he wasn't, he would at least reply, so Peter sends another message asking if he’s okay. 

Eleven. 

That’s supposed to be good luck, right? Make a wish.

Another twenty minutes pass, and Peter levels up on Candy Crush even though he hasn’t touched the game in over a year. 

The waitress clears her throat. 

Peter looks up.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she says, embarrassed frown gracing her mouth. “But we have other reservations, tonight, so if you want to order now, or we can make you food to go…”

“Oh, my date’s just running late. He’s on his way. I promise.”

“Right, but we’re booked solid tonight.”

“I’ll just wait a little longer.”

The dread in Peter’s stomach grows, webbing up his arms and down his legs, causing his foot to tap incessantly underneath the table. He wants to believe that Cam isn’t standing him up, but it’s getting harder and harder to curb his doubts. 

He hates thinking it, especially if something bad did happen to Cam. 

Peter opens Instagram, just to waste time.

Cam’s posted a story. Peter’s checked his page enough times over the last 24 hours that it’s right up top, not first, but there. He clicks: Cam’s at the party Flash, Ned and Michelle are at.

Peter blinks, and his next breath sounds too shaky among the clanking silverware and idle chat of the tables around him. 

He accidentally makes eye contact with the waitress before ducking his head.

“Sir,” she says, thin, her patience clearly waning. 

“Right. I’m sorry, I’ll--”

“--Wait!”

Ned.

It’s Ned.

He stumbles as he rounds the corner, knocking into a man’s chair and apologizing. 

Flash and Michelle are behind him. Flash stuffs his hands into the pockets of the worst pair of leather pants Peter has ever seen, shoulders hunched and head down, a respectable distance between him and the other two, like he doesn’t want anyone to think they’re all together. 

Michelle catches Peter’s eye, lifting her hand in a halfhearted wave before turning her palm and flipping him off. 

He smiles. 

“So, so, so sorry we’re late, Peter,” Ned rushes, skidding to a stop at Peter’s table for two. He looks at the waitress, saying, “MTA,” by way of explanation. 

“‘Sup,” Flash says, nodding at her.

“Um.” She frowns. “Who are you?”

“We’re his dates,” Ned answers, straightening up and beaming. 

Peter’s heart does a weird, warm flip in his stomach.

“All of you?” she asks, eyebrows folding. 

Flash says, “No.”

Ned says, “Yeah!”

Michelle says, “You have a problem with that?”

The poor waitress blinks. “We don’t have a bigger table.”

“You have any chairs?” Michelle gestures to the empty one, still tucked in. 

“Um.”

“It’s fine. We can eat somewhere else.” Michelle nods her head toward the door. 

“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding, but he booked a two-person reservation, and you’re all over an hour late.”

“I get it.”

Michelle elbows Flash. He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and hands the waitress a tip. Peter is about to protest, but Michelle cuts him off: “Shut it, nerd.” Definitive and flat. 

When they get back to the apartment after a trip to Shake Shack -- where Flash reached into his wallet again, this time to buy fries and shakes for everyone, along with a burger for Peter -- Peter notices the Douchebag Jar has noticeably less money in it.

Huh.

*

Peter has heard a lot about Harry Osborn.

Correction: he’s heard a lot about Harry Osborn breaking up with Michelle and her subsequent meltdown. 

He cannot imagine it. 

He cannot imagine someone as put together and self-assured as Michelle spending a weekend in bed, eating nothing but ice cream and watching nothing but _Gone Girl_. He knows she’s human because she spilled hot coffee on herself last Tuesday, shrieking and swearing up a storm. Her hair frizzes when it gets humid outside. Her smiles are mostly small, close-lipped things, but her eyes go bright if she’s really happy, and sometimes she laughs so hard she snorts at Ned’s jokes.

But even still, the idea of someone managing to break her heart sits weird in Peter’s stomach, like a lie he’s telling, even if he’s not the one telling it. 

Which is why it shocks him when she says, “I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend.”

“What?” 

“At Cindy and Sally’s wedding this Saturday.”

“Can’t Flash or Ned do it? I have lesson plans to review and a coupon for five dollars off on pizza, so ...” 

“Harry knows Ned and Flash.”

Peter can feel his eyes bug out of his head like some Saturday morning cartoon character. “Harry?”

She huffs, wringing her hands as she stands in front of him. “Yeah. He’s going with his new girlfriend, and I don’t need him getting the wrong idea.”

“Which is?” 

“That I’m hung up on him, or pathetic, or that nobody wants to date me.”

“Why would he think that?” Michelle is competent and confident, as previously stated, and like, incredibly pretty, even with frizzy, humidity hair. 

She rolls her eyes, but Peter can’t place it. “Because he’s an asshole.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? Okay like you agree he’s an asshole, or okay like you’re going to be my wedding date? The plate is already paid for, so.”

“Okay, I’ll go. I like weddings.”

Michelle appraises him, and he sits up, pulling his shoulder blades back and down. “You would,” she decides.

“I do,” Peter says, baffled. “I just said that.”

“Harry is awesome,” Flash says, fingers catching in Peter’s tie as he attempts a Windsor knot. “I don’t know why he dated MJ for two years, but he definitely won the break up.”

“Jar,” Peter tries.

“You’re not there yet, Penis,” Flash says. “Besides, Ned!?”

“Yeah?” Ned peeks his head around the corner. 

“Harry won the break up, right?”

“Oh, totally.”

Flash’s answering grin is all teeth and all smug. “Told you.”

Peter wipes his palms against his dress pants. He tugs on the lapels of his suit jacket and halts the urge to run his hands through the hair that Flash helped him style. 

“Wow,” Ned says, connecting his thumb and pointer finger into a circle before resting them against his bottom lip and whistling. “You clean up nice.” 

Peter high-fives him. “You, too.”

“I thought navy would help me stand out,” Ned says.

“Flash is wearing maroon with a zebra-print dress shirt.”

“Dude,” Ned laughs, elbowing Peter in the side. “That’s the wrong kind of standing out.”

“I tried to tell him, but he said he wouldn’t take fashion advice from someone who wears a shirt that says _Geometry keeps me in shape_ to the gym.”

“That’s the only place to wear that shirt!” 

“Yeah!” Peter agrees, and then: “Wait, what?”

He wears that shirt all the time. 

Ned ignores him in favor of bringing his fingers to his mouth again, whistling at Michelle as she steps out from the hallway. 

“Thanks, Leeds,” she says, brushing at her curls. “But jar.”

“Why?”

“Wolf-whistling is like cat-calling, degrading and dehumanizing.” 

“The jar’s for Flash,” Ned protests.

“The jar’s for when any dude I live with decides to be an asshole.”

“It was a compliment. I whistled for Peter, too.” 

“So?” Michelle makes eye contact with Peter. “Did you feel dehumanized when Ned wolf-whistled at you?”

“Uh, no?”

“Your lucky day,” Michelle tuts. “Only one dollar owed to the jar.”

Peter says, “Well, actually...” 

Ned says, “Peter! No!”

Michelle grins -- actually grins -- and Peter knows better than to say it looks good on her, the implication of women and smiling and all that, but the smile does look good, proud and delighted. 

It makes Peter smile back.

“You heard him,” Michelle says. “Two dollars.”

Ned grumbles but does as he’s told. 

“You look nice,” Peter tells her. 

The yellow of her dress pops against her glowing skin, and her curls are tighter and more voluminous than usual, her mouth glossy with something that looks sheer, lashes long and curled up. Michelle almost doesn’t look like herself, if Peter’s being honest. But she also looks exactly like herself. 

It’s a contradiction he can’t parse. Maybe because it boils down to Michelle looks nice, and she always looks nice, and something about that feels larger than it should. 

“Thanks.” Her smile goes small and then drops. “Now, where’s Eugene?”

When he emerges from the bathroom, he immediately has to put a twenty in the jar. 

Peter watches Michelle scan the seats set up on the venue’s lawn. Her mouth is flat and thin, and her eyes are narrow, shoulders back and chin up. “Okay,” she exhales. 

“Okay?”

She grabs Peter’s hand, lacing their fingers together and pushing through the doors, leading him to two seats somewhere in the middle of the white, wooden chairs. She leans over. “Put your arm around me.”

“What?”

“You’re my boyfriend,” she reminds him, one eyebrow moving like it wants to arch but doesn’t quite know how. 

Peter opens his mouth, closes it, and sighs. He does what she says, stretching his arm into the air and slowly bringing it down around her shoulders, letting his wrist hang off her body instead of brushing against her with his hand. 

Pretending to be her date is weird, and he’s been doing it for less than a minute. 

She leans in again. “Laugh.”

Peter does, high-pitched and awkward. He kind of wants the floor to open up and swallow him. 

“Harry’s coming over.”

“What?” Peter does a double take, looking between Michelle and the man walking their way. He’s rail thin, pale with dark hair, and tall. “Him? Is he a vampire or something?”

Michelle throws her head back, and he can feel her neck curve against his arm, a laugh-like sound that sounds nothing like her laugh pouring out of her mouth. She reaches up, grabs his hand and threads their fingers together. “Be cool, Parker,” she whispers, voice low and nice and kind of threatening. 

“What do I do?” he hisses. 

“Follow my lead.”

“MJ?” Harry greets, his voice going up at the end like it wants to crack in half. 

That’s good, right? Peter hopes that’s good. Hey jealousy, or whatever. 

“Hi, Harry.” Her voice is flat. Also good. Unaffected. Uncaring. 

Peter looks between the two of them, and Michelle squeezes his hand. She might be good, but Peter wishes she had taken him more seriously when he asked to flesh out their characters, figure out their motivations and their greatest wishes, decide on which brunch place is their favorite, and which one they just pretend is their favorite because it seems cooler. 

Harry and Michelle simply stare at each other, so Peter clears his throat. “Hi, I’m Peter. Michelle’s boyfriend.”

“Michelle?” Harry repeats, eyebrows furrowing as he looks at Peter. 

“Yep. Michelle. Chelle, Chelley, Emmy, babe. You know: her.” Peter points at Michelle with his thumb. “And you are?”

“He’s my ex,” Michelle jumps in. 

“Oh. Nice to meet you.” Peter holds out his hand. “Was it Huey?”

“Harry,” Harry corrects.

“Henry?”

He frowns, and it makes Peter want to laugh. “Harry.”

“Hilbert?”

“Harry.”

“Haroldine?”

“Harry.” 

“Oh. Okay, Hans, well, Mich doesn’t talk about you too much, you know. We’re usually too busy, you know,” Peter clears his throat. “Having the sex.”

“The what?”

Peter can feel his face burn, but Michelle squeezes his hand again, reassuring and soft, so he continues: “There’s so much sex, you know? All the time. Crazy amounts. Can’t keep our hands off each other, sex in public bathrooms amounts. We were almost late today because of all the sex happening. She’s like, so vocal, you know?”

“Vocal,” Harry drawls out, the word slow and languid and confused, like it’s not the first thing that comes to mind when he plays word association with sex and Michelle. 

“Well, it was nice talking to you,” Michelle says, leaning her head down and shifting to rest it awkwardly against Peter’s shoulder. Peter lays his head on top of hers. “See you later, Harry.”

“Yeah. Later.” 

“Bye, Henrik!” Peter calls. 

Michelle tilts her head so her laugh muffles against Peter’s suit jacket. He can feel the warmth of her breath floating against his jaw. “Oh my god,” she groans. 

“You think he bought it?” Peter asks. 

“Not at all.”

He tries to extract his arm from around Michelle’s shoulder when the wedding starts, but she tugs it back, cutting him a sideways look that promises physical pain if he doesn’t cooperate. 

Peter smiles a shaky thing at her, heart doing one solid flip in his stomach before he looks at Harry, sitting a few rows up and across the aisle. Harry twists his neck to glance at them.

Peter chooses to focus on the ceremony and not the heavy and hot feeling of his arm around Michelle, her knee bumping against his as she wiggles her foot, or the press of her along his side, warm and dependable like a favorite blanket. 

He smiles and tears up at the appropriate times. 

Peter’s heart swells with the idea of love and the reality of it standing before everyone gathered here today. Peter believes in it. Still. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be here pretending to be Michelle’s boyfriend, and he wouldn’t keep glancing at Harry, catching him turning his head and trying to get a better look at Peter and Michelle. 

“Hey,” Peter whispers, leaning into Michelle’s space. He’s so close now, and she smells like vanilla and strawberries and something that reminds him of home. He figures that’s what living together does. “Harry keeps looking back here.”

“I know.” She tilts her head like she’s granting him access.

Peter presses a kiss to her cheek.

Michelle blinks slow, and it accompanies a soft, long exhale.

Peter squeezes her shoulder, trails his hand up and down her arm, and sees Harry’s head jerk forward. 

He doesn’t look back for the rest of the ceremony. 

“You and MJ really committed to this, huh?” Ned asks through a mouthful of appetizer.

“Does MJ ever do anything halfway?”

“That’s the only way she does things.”

“She spent an entire week making omelets for all of us so she could perfect the art of folding them.” Peter frowns. “She read a 900 page book in a day because Flash told her she wouldn’t be able to do it.”

Ned makes this aborted, scoffing noise, as though he thinks Peter is being dense purely to annoy him. “You’re like, emotionally available, Peter. It’s why we’re already best friends.” Peter nods, and he and Ned do the entire handshake they created while drunk on wine coolers one Friday night during their _Star Wars_ marathon. “You share yourself with people. You’re the kind of person to dive into something. You say _I love you_ on the first date.”

“Did I tell you about that?” Peter asks, mortified. He doesn’t know if U-Haul lesbians are actually a thing, but Ricardo was definitely not a U-Haul, cis gay man. 

Ned hums, the sound somehow bordering on wise. “MJ is like ... it took me three years to learn her middle name, you know?”

“She has a middle name?”

Ned narrows his eyes. 

“Right, don’t want you to turn up dead.”

“Exactly. That’s my point.”

“Well, I mean, this isn’t even real. It’s not like she’s telling me any childhood stories.” Peter scratches at the back of his neck, eyes drifting to where MJ is propped over their table. She looks around the room, face blank, and when she makes eye contact with Peter, she sits up, smile clenched and artificial, and he knows, instinctively, that she’s trying to convey he’s taking too long getting her vodka martini. 

“Sure,” Ned says, picking up another hor d'oeuvre. 

Peter shakes his head. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I said _sure_ in a condescending way, Peter. Now get back to MJ before Harry realizes she’s not telling you her favorite color used to be pink.”

Peter stares at Ned, trying to discern if that’s true or not. He decides it is. Ned’s never been a particularly good liar, at least as long as Peter has known him, and he figures usually that’s the kind of thing you get better at over time, especially because Ned’s failure doesn’t stop him from trying.

It’s kind of inspirational, actually.

“Two different guys asked me to dance,” Michelle says when Peter hands over her drink. It sounds like a formal complaint. 

Peter says, “Sorry,” even though he’s not. “Hey, what’s your favorite color?”

Michelle snorts. “How old am I? Six?”

“Mine’s red.”

“Angry, aggressive, bold. How masculine.”

Okay, so Ned was definitely telling the truth. 

“Or,” Peter counters, “The color of passion and love.”

Michelle takes a sip of her martini and eyes him over the rim of her glass. “You’re such a loser.”

“Thanks.” 

“Wasn’t a compliment.”

“It sounded like one.”

“I’ll work on my inflection,” she says before tipping her head back and gulping down the rest of her drink. It should probably be, at best, mildly concerning. 

Michelle wipes at her mouth with a napkin, her eyes settling on something on the dancefloor behind Peter’s head. 

Peter twists in his chair and finds Harry slow dancing with the girl he’s been with all night -- his date; his girlfriend. He’s a head taller than her, and as she curls into his chest, Peter realizes Harry’s staring at Michelle.

Shit. 

“You wanna dance?” Peter asks, turning to face her again. 

She blinks like she’s waking up from an overly long nap, slow and hazy and disoriented. “I don’t dance.”

“Awesome! Me neither.”

Her mouth quirks up. “Okay.”

Peter stands, holding out his hand.

Michelle sits back and crosses her arms over her chest. “You just said you don’t dance.”

“Harry’s watching.”

She stares at him in the same slow and hazy way as before. Peter watches her swallow, and her eyes drift over his face so he feels exposed, self-conscious, completely unsure of what she’s thinking. Maybe he did something wrong, crossed some invisible line, because just as she refused to create a narrative for their relationship, she refused to discuss boundaries.

Peter drops his hand.

This time, Michelle’s blink contains something that Peter misses, can’t place, has never seen flitting across her face before, too quick to analyze. It makes the scientist in him itch to recreate it, hypothesize and experiment, but he doesn’t know where he’d begin.

She stands. “Just this once,” she says, voice quiet. 

She grabs Peter’s hand and leads him onto the dancefloor. 

She drops his hand.

They stand still, looking at each other while some slow, romantic song floats through the speakers, curling around swaying bodies and forming some sort of wall between them. Michelle chews on the corner of her lip, and Peter stretches his fingers by his sides. 

“You look really pretty,” he says. 

“You look pretty, too.” Her chest rises and falls with her next breath. 

Peter feels like he watches her lift her hands to brush her hair out of her face in slow motion. The space between that action and those same fingers curling around his neck, playing with the collar of his shirt, is another breath, inhale and exhale.

He settles his hands on her waist, feather-light. 

Michelle smiles a tight-lipped thing that Peter can’t read, which sucks, because he thought he was getting better at figuring her out. 

He still smiles back. 

They shift around awkwardly as the song fades. 

Into “The Chicken Dance.”

Peter laughs.

Michelle turns, and he stops her with the hand still on her hip. “Where are you going?”

“To sit down.” Charades: Sounds like: _You’re an idiot._

“You promised me a dance,” Peter says. He starts wiggling around. His hands become beaks, then get tucked underneath his armpits to flap his elbows like wings. 

Michelle appraises him, face blank. Peter keeps dancing, maintaining eye contact and committing to the part the same way he committed to being her fake boyfriend. She presses her mouth together like she’s afraid of something spilling out, and as Peter dances, bobbing his head like a chicken pecking for seed, she lets the laugh escape.

It’s a breathless, exasperated thing. Her eye roll is halfhearted at best.

And then. 

The most marvelous thing happens: Michelle tucks her thumbs underneath her armpits, flaps her arms and bends her legs to the insidious omp-pah rhythm of the song. 

Peter’s grin overtakes him. “You’re a natural!” he says, bending his knees deeper to get lower to the floor, to try and coax out the smile he can see beginning anew at the corner of her mouth.

“Toddlers can do this,” she deflects.

“I’m on theme, then.”

Michelle shakes her head like she finds him as annoying as the song, but her smile blossoms, a wonderful, shy thing Peter has never seen directed at him before. It lives in the crinkles around her eyes and the barely there scrunch of her nose. 

Her movements are still small and abrupt, almost embarrassed, so Peter exaggerates his until she laughs, a quiet sound he only hears because he’s listening for it. 

“MJ’s dancing!” Ned hollers, artfully sliding his way past the crowd until he can elbow Michelle in the side. 

“I knew loser was contagious,” Flash says from over Peter’s shoulder. He swivels his hips until the four of them have formed a polygon on the dance floor. In lieu of doing the chicken dance, Flash is just gyrating like an idiot, which makes Peter laugh. 

MJ scoffs, eyes chin tilted up. “You’re not doing the dance correctly, and if you think being the only one humping the air like you do your mattress in the morning makes you cooler than the rest of us, then you’re even dumber than I thought. Which shouldn’t be humanly possible.”

“Yeah, MJ!” Ned says, throwing his hand into the air for a high-five. 

She says, “No.”

She keeps dancing, and Peter keeps smiling. 

Putting her shoes back on, Michelle buckles her heel’s ankle strap. Half of her hair is still curled, and the other half has slackened into her more usual waves; her makeup has faded except for the black curl of her eyelashes. 

Goosebumps pimple her arms, so Peter grabs his suit jacket from around his chair. “Here,” he offers.

“Thanks.” Her answering smile is soft and hesitant. Her fingers wrinkle the material as she throws it around her shoulders.

“Hey MJ,” Harry says. He rests his hand on the back of her chair. 

“Hi.” Michelle presses her mouth together, a facsimile of a smile. 

“I’m really happy for you,” Harry says.

“Okay.”

“And Peter, I don’t know, man. I couldn’t even tell that MJ liked me until we broke up. It’s good, though. I didn’t believe it at first, but it’s good that she’s capable of opening herself up and being an actual person and all that. I really am happy for you guys.” He rests his hand over Peter’s shoulder, the other moving to squeeze Michelle’s. “Have a good night.”

He leaves.

Michelle’s shoulders are stiff underneath Peter’s jacket, hitched up too high, and the color drains from her face. She turns to see Harry sling his arm around his date’s waist and head toward the exit. 

“That’s good, right?” Peter asks. “That he bought it?”

“Sure,” Michelle says. “Let’s go home.”

Peter brushes his teeth, up and down and side to side like May taught him -- he tries to do small circles, but he’s not good at it, always forgets.

He brushes until the paste foams up in his mouth, threatening to leak out the corners, and he thinks about MJ. 

About what Harry said. 

She was quiet on the ride back to the apartment, letting Flash control the radio with no fuss and staring out the window with her hands clenched in her lap. 

Peter can’t shake Harry’s words. He hates the truth he finds in them, of what it says about himself, wondering whether Michelle would allow anyone to even break her heart, whether she liked him at all or not. 

She does. 

Peter knows that now. 

He didn’t always. 

He spits into the sink, rinses his mouth, and runs a hand through his hair. 

He pauses outside his bedroom, looking at Michelle’s closed door across the hall. She always keeps it closed. Peter keeps his open when he’s home, sitting at his desk revising lesson plans or lying on his bed and flipping through the latest comic book he picked up. It’s a habit from his first year of college that helped him make friends with the students in his dorm. It’s inviting and encourages people walking by to look in and say hello. 

Peter shuffles across the hall and knocks on Michelle’s door. 

“Who is it?” she calls. 

“It’s me.”

“One second.”

He hears rustling, and then she peeps her head out. “Did your closet door stick shut again?”

“No.” Peter smiles, wringing his hands. “No, um. I just wanted to say that I had a lot of fun tonight. Thanks for inviting me. Cindy and Sally seem really in love.”

“You don’t have to do that, Peter.”

“Do what?”

“Lie to make me feel better.” She swallows. There are dark circles underneath her eyes, and it looks like she tried to take her makeup off, but some mascara is still smudged underneath her lower lashes. 

Peter’s heart aches. “I’m not.”

“Okay.” She presses her mouth into a thin line. “Goodnight, Peter.”

“Goodnight.” 

He turns around and hears the click of her door closing. 

He pivots, knocking again.

She pulls the door open further this time. “Yeah?” 

“It’s not your fault.”

“What?” she asks, a lick of annoyance now. 

“If he couldn’t tell you liked him after two years, he wasn’t paying any attention.”

Michelle blinks, her face crumpling for a moment, and then she exhales. Her eyes swim with unshed tears. “Thanks.”

Peter shrugs. “Goodnight, MJ.”

Her mouth is a soft, moonlit curve. “Night, dork.”

*

Peter fumbles with his keys as he attempts to wiggle the handle the right way so the door unlocks and opens up.

“One day that won’t work and you’ll be locked out,” Liz tells him.

“It’s fine.” Peter tries again. 

Fails again.

“You need to get it fixed,” Liz repeats.

“What you can do for your country!” echoes from inside the apartment. 

“What was that?” Liz asks as Peter successfully jiggles the doorknob so his key clicks in the lock, allowing him to pull the door open. 

“You’re playing True American without me?” Peter asks. 

MJ stands on the coffee table, beer in hand. Flash is on a dining chair, making his way toward the castle of alcohol in the middle of the room, and Ned sits on the kitchen counter, legs dangling over the edge, reaching for a pot holder he can throw to the ground and stand on.

MJ says, “Yes.”

Ned says, “Sorry, dude.”

Flash says, “I’m winning.”

Liz asks, “What’s True American?”

“I can’t believe you guys are playing without me.” Peter pouts.

“You were out with Liz,” Ned consoles. “We didn’t know when you’d be home, and MJ has to leave for the bar in thirty minutes.”

“You’re all standing on furniture,” Liz remarks. 

The rest of them: “The floor is lava.”

MJ adds, “Ned is sitting.”

“Like a loser,” Flash says. “He’s stuck.”

Liz shakes her head, baffled. “I’m so confused.”

“True American is 50% drinking game, 50% Candyland,” Peter explains. “And it’s the best game ever created.”

“60% drinking game and 40% Candyland,” Flash corrects. “There are four quadrants--”

“Quad means four,” MJ interrupts. 

“You need to work your way through the quadrants to reach the castle,” Peter says, pointing to the tower of beers in the center of the apartment, a bottle of tequila raised in the middle. “You take a swig of the hard liquor to win the game.”

“It’s 75% drinking game and 25% Candyland,” Ned says. “You earn moves by answering a question correctly, guessing what things have in common, or completing a quote. You must drink when you answer correctly. Also, when you feel like it.”

“It’s 85% drinking game and 15% Candyland,” MJ corrects. “When someone yells, ‘JFK,’ everyone must yell, ‘FDR,’ and finish their beer. The floor is molten lava, and everything you hear in True American is a lie. Kind of like how history class frames the European invasion of this country.”

Liz frowns. “Sounds complicated.”

“It’s actually really fun,” Peter says. 

Flash shakes his head. “You can’t play. We already started, and I’m winning.”

MJ finishes her beer, crushes the can between her fingers, and throws the aluminum at Flash’s head. She misses by a wide margin. 

They restart the game, inducting Liz by making her shotgun a beer as the traditional kickoff.

MJ leaves halfway through to go to work, and Liz wins, eyes glassy and speech slurring as she pumps her fists into the air. 

“Beginners luck,” Peter says, hopping down from the sofa and nudging his shoulder against hers.

“You’re killer,” Ned adds, coming over to give Liz a high-five.

Flash just grumbles about how they shouldn’t have started over at all.

*

The apartment is nice.

Really.

Peter just has a few small, minuscule complaints: the sliding door to his closet sticks, and it takes an inhuman amount of effort to pull it open sometimes, and when it gets off its track, putting it back is near impossible. The kitchen faucet leaks if you don’t set it back just so, and the other day Peter spent a solid minute trying to stop the dripping. There’s a gap between the window and its ledge in the living area, even when shut, and New York is starting to turn chilly, October bleeding into November. 

“I think the super’s in the office today,” Peter says on the first Saturday of the month. 

Flash says, “No.”

MJ says, “No.”

Ned slams the refrigerator closed and says, “No.”

“Why not? Maybe she could do something about my closet.”

“Or,” Ned says, “Just hear me out. You could leave your closet open all the time.”

“It’s her job to fix things like that,” Peter argues. 

Ned twists the cap off the grapefruit juice he always labels even though everybody else agrees it’s bitter and gross. Peter wouldn’t drink it for less than a dollar. 

He’s not rich. He could use a dollar. 

“She doesn’t do her job,” Flash says. 

“Maybe because none of you ever ask her to,” Peter counters. 

“We’ve learned the hard way not to, dude,” Ned says. “Trust us.”

Peter thinks about it. 

He really, really does. Because all three of them are in agreement, which is rare and beautiful like a blue moon. 

But then he thinks about how Flash treats him, and if he were the superintendent, he wouldn’t want to help Flash out, either. MJ is great, but she’s critical. Ned gives him pause, because he’s so easy to please, a dog with a bone or a kid in a toy store. 

Peter swallows down another spoonful of Cocoa Pebbles and watches Ned pour himself a glass of juice, his name printed in big block letters over the label: PROPERTY OF **NED LEEDS**. DON’T DRINK!!! (Unless Ned.)

Peter finishes his breakfast and stops by the gym. He really does like to use that teacher membership thingy. His pay is decent, and he feels good about shaping future generations, but the odd discounts at various restaurants and stores burn in the back of his mind. Not using them feels like failing himself, and it makes him feel weirdly ungrateful.

On his way toward the elevator, he pauses by the superintendent's office, the door ajar. 

Well.

He knocks. “Hey? Miss Pryde?”

“Hello?” She swivels her chair around.

“I’m Peter Parker. I live in 3B?”

“You live in 3B?” she asks, one eyebrow arching as she takes him in. “Statement or question?”

“Statement.” The gym is always crowded on Saturday mornings, so Peter’s still in the basketball shorts and stupid, geometry pun T-shirt he worked out in. He feels self-conscious, runs a hand through his hair and doesn’t take a step closer. 

“And what can I do for you, Peter Parker of 3B?”

“My closet door sticks?”

“Is that a question?” she asks again, amusement bleeding through.

Peter shifts his weight. “No. Um, it does. Can I put in a work order?”

“No need. I can be up there in an hour. Sound good?” 

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah, really,” she laughs, a lilting song that rings pleasantly. 

“That’d be great. Thanks.”

She says, “See you in an hour.”

Peter showers, picks up his room so Miss Pryde doesn’t have to see a pile of unopened credit cards offers he’s been pre-approved for, empty Doritos bags, and a thin layer of dust on his dresser. 

He hears a knock on the door as he’s straightening out his stack of chemistry textbooks. Peter hollers, “I’ve got it,” and practically sprints to answer it before Ned or MJ can exhume themselves from their rooms. Flash is out having a “social life.” Quotes because he uses air quotes whenever he says it, which always makes MJ snort, because, obviously. 

None of them ever ask what Flash’s “social life” consists of. Seems safer that way. 

“Hey, Miss Pryde.”

“Kitty,” she corrects, looking up through her eyelashes. 

“Kitty, right. Thank you for coming.”

“Happy to.”

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Peter asks. 

“Let’s work up a sweat first.” She winks, brushing against him as she pushes into the apartment. Her auburn hair is pulled back into a ponytail that bounces between her shoulder blades with each step. “Which room is yours?”

“Oh, it’s uh, down the hall.” Peter gestures with his arm. “On the left.”

Peter feels like she’s a stranger in his home, but Kitty walks with purpose, glancing left and right as she takes inventory of the place. “The decoration is a bit … eclectic,” she notes, pausing with her had on his doorknob. 

“My roommates decorated the place, and I guess their tastes are all different.”

“Only your roommates?”

“It was already set up when I moved in.” Peter shrugs. “And I didn’t have much furniture to contribute.”

Felicia kept most of it. 

“Well,” Kitty drawls, turning the handle and opening the door. “At least you have a bed. When’s the last time you flipped the mattress?”

Peter blinks and scratches at the back of his neck. “I don’t know.”

“I could help you flip it after we fix your closet?”

“Yeah, sure, that’d be great, actually.”

Kitty looks at the closet door, the track it sits on, and moves it back and forth a few times. It jams. She hums. “I don’t know how to fix this, but I’ll figure it out and get back to you.”

“Yeah, of course. Thanks.” 

“Please tell me you’ve washed your sheets recently,” Kitty says, turning toward his bed, hands on her hips. 

“Yes?”

Last weekend is recent, right? Peter’s fairly certain May said he should wash them every two weeks, but that was years ago when he went off to undergrad, and it’s possible he forgot, or mixed up her advice about how often to wash his sheets with how often to do laundry or some other household chore he forgot about completely and thus hasn’t been doing something he should be doing every two weeks, well, ever. 

Kitty bites around a smile. “Let’s just put clean ones on after we flip it.”

Peter agrees, pulling up one corner of the fitted sheet while Kitty pulls up another. When they’re done, Peter rolling everything up into a lumpy ball and shoving the pile into his hamper, Kitty makes a comment about his hands and being good at stripping things: “I wonder what else those hands can strip,” she says, all suggestive. 

Peter know she’s flirting; he’s not stupid. She makes a few more comments and jokes as they flip the mattress to the other side and then turn it 180 degrees. He figures it’s just Kitty’s personality. The winking tone to her words charming rather than uncomfortable, her smile sly, eyes bright and mischievous. Peter feels like he’s in on the joke rather than the butt of it. Kitty would probably have something to say about his butt if he said that outloud, so he keeps the thought firmly in his head. 

She sighs when they’re done, folding the top sheet down as she finishes making Peter’s bed. “Wow, that was exhausting.”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees. He’s not tired, and Kitty doesn’t look particularly winded, either. He just doesn't know what else to say. 

“Really worked up an appetite.” 

“Do you want to come over for dinner?” Peter asks. 

Kitty beams. “Yes.”

“Cool. Um. I think there are a few other things--”

“Make a list,” Kitty says, stepping forward and resting a hand on Peter’s arm. “I think I’ve done enough today.” A beat. “And I need to rest up for tonight.”

Peter laughs. “I know I didn’t go through the proper channels, but I really appreciate your help.”

“Save it for dinner, Peter,” she says, running her hand down his arm and brushing past him. “I’m sure you’ll show me just how much you appreciate me.”

Another wink.

Peter chuckles, vaguely uncomfortable, and follows her out of his room and to the front door. 

MJ sits at the table, laptop open. Peter watches her glance up, and then he watches her look again. “Hey, Pryde.”

“Oh, hi!” Kitty’s mouth pulls up. “Michelle, right?”

“Yeah.” 

MJ’s eyes cut to Peter, eyebrows moving up for one quick, judgmental moment. He shrugs, hands out and open, and attempts to communicate that he was right this entire time without saying anything in front of Kitty. 

“While you’re here, the garbage disposal is acting up,” Michelle says. 

“Oh, sorry, you know what? I have to get going. But if you put in a request, I’m sure I’ll get to it.”

MJ hums like _she_ has been right this entire time. 

“I’ll see you tonight,” Kitty says to Peter, soft and low, almost like a secret. 

When the door closes behind her, Peter turns to Michelle. 

He says, “So.”

“You realized you made a mistake ignoring our advice.” Michelle nods, but she doesn’t bother looking up from whatever she’s doing. Could be writing her novel or budgeting or playing hearts against her computer. “Happens to the best of us.”

“Uh, no. Kitty was very helpful.”

“_Kitty_,” MJ mocks, the name a scoff out of her mouth, “wants to sleep with you.”

“That’s-- What?-- No.”

“That’s-- What?-- Yes,” MJ says, dry as sauvignon blanc. 

“She’s a little flirty, okay, but some people are just friendly. I know that’s a foreign concept to you.”

MJ does scoff this time. 

“I’m a tenant, and she’s our super. She’s doing her job. That’s all.”

“Coming over for dinner is part of the job description?” MJ asks.

“I invited her as thanks for helping with my closest.”

Michelle falters. “She fixed your closet?” 

“She looked at it. She said she’ll figure out what the problem is and fix it later.”

A slow, knowing blink. Peter didn’t know blinks could be anything, but MJ does it with such precision, eyelashing dark and curled, that Peter can actually see the affirmation of her intelligence. “She wants to sleep with you.”

“No, she doesn’t,” he protests. 

“Yes, she does.”

“Can you stop doing that?”

MJ smirks. “Doing what?”

“You should come to dinner tonight. Then you’ll see what I’m talking about. Kitty is nice. And you have the wrong idea”

“You’re inviting me on your date?”

“It’s not a date,” Peter sighs. 

MJ’s face says she very much doubts that. Her mouth says, “I’ll be there.”

“Here.”

“You’re inviting me on your first date, and you’re not even taking her out to dinner?” MJ’s eyes are wide, and her voice is all sarcasm. “Wow.”

Peter ignores her and relays that Kitty will be back at 6:30 for dinner before heading to his room and flopping onto his recently flipped mattress. 

He can’t tell if it actually made a difference. 

Kitty arrives with a bottle of wine, smoky eye shadow, and a cock of her when MJ asks if she likes spaghetti. 

“She made cheesy garlic bread,” Peter offers. 

Kitty rolls her shoulders back. “Sounds good.”

The three of them sit around the table. 

Peter belatedly invited Ned, but he’s on a date with a woman named Betty who texts like a newspaper article: introductory sentence with the who, what, when and where. Peter knows because Ned shoved his phone under Peter’s nose repeatedly to exclaim about how awesome she is as he was trying on various Hawaiian shirts for tonight. He extended an offer to Flash, but Flash said he’d rather be caught dead than hanging at home with his roommates on a Saturday night. 

So, it’s just the three of them. 

Sitting around the table. 

Peter feels nerves begin to pulse underneath his skin, and he fumbles reaching for the wine when he feels the brush of Kitty’s toes against his shin. He uncorks the bottle and offers some to Kitty before pouring his own. He tilts the neck toward MJ’s glass. 

“I’m not drinking that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I want to have full control of my body and mind tonight.” She smirks and takes a large, crunchy bite of garlic bread, all smug satisfaction. 

Kitty leans over to brush her elbow against Peter’s arm. “It’s okay, we’ll just split it and let Michelle be the designated driver.”

Peter says, “We’re not driving anywhere.”

“No, we’re not,” she agrees, smile sly. 

This time, the person who hits his shin with their foot is MJ, and it’s less of a gentle caress and more of an _I told you so_ kick.

Peter knows he lost whatever battle they were having about Kitty being a helpful superintendent, or not flirting with him, or whatever. He doesn’t actually know what the argument was anymore. He could probably figure out how those two threads are related if he wasn’t focused on surviving dinner with any ounce of his dignity left in tact. 

He spills red sauce on his shirt, knocks his fork onto the ground, and spits wine back into his glass when MJ says he’s always going at it until 3 AM, apparently having decided to encourage Kitty instead of helping Peter redirect her comments toward the PG. 

He sputters and attempts to clarify that thing he is “going at” is video games. 

Peter can’t even blame Kitty for the misunderstanding. Looking back, her intentions were clear. 

To retract his previous statement: Peter feels pretty stupid. 

After dinner, Kitty excuses herself to the bathroom. 

Peter gathers the dishes from the table, making a pile of plates, forks clattering on top like a clock with too many hands, smearing the sauce and cheese in the process. He lifts his head and finds Michelle sitting with her hands folded on the table, eyeing him with more amusement than he’s ever seen on her face. 

“Please don’t,” he groans.

“If you wanted to get laid, loser, you could have just said so.”

“I don’t,” Peter stresses, picking up the stack he made and walking it to the sink. “That’s not what this is.”

“She only agreed to half-help you because she wants to have sex with you. Don’t get me wrong, Pryde’s not a bad superintendent. I like being left alone. The old super was always sticking his nose in everybody’s business. If something is going to destroy her property, she’ll get someone to fix it. But come on, you have to admit I was right.” MJ’s chair scrapes against the hardwood.

“You’re not, though.”

MJ huffs, “Okay.” 

“She’s a good person and a good super. You just think the worst of people.”

“I’m a realist.” She leans against the counter, next to the sink, arms crossed over her chest. 

“Pessimist.”

“You just said you didn’t want to get laid, so only one of us is lying.”

“Must be you.” 

“Funny,” MJ droles. “You’d make a better case about her being helpful if you said you came onto her and wanted to get laid, but…”

Peter’s mouth twitches up at the corners, but he does his best to push down the abashed smile.

Kitty reenters the living space, reaching behind her head to tug her hair out of her ponytail. She says, “I know this is unbelievable, but I’ve never had a threesome before.”

Peter feels his face go hot. “Uh.”

“You guys ready, or are we going to skate around this a little more?” Kitty asks.

Michelle laughs, a quick, brash sound caught in the back of her throat. “Peter?”

He should probably fess up. 

No, he should _definitely_ fess up.

He should apologize for the misunderstanding and own up to misreading her obvious flirting as friendly, because he never wants to assume a woman is into him when she’s just being nice. Michelle’s complained about it many times after coming home from a long shift at the bar, exhausted and smelling like spilled liquor. 

He glances at her and the sparkling smugness all over her face. He says, “I’m ready.”

Kitty says, “Awesome.”

MJ says, “What?”

“Unless MJ isn’t game,” Peter challenges.

MJ stares at him, and he feels it bristle at the back of his neck. He swears a question blooms in her eyes, but it’s too marred by competition to pull apart. “I’m ready,” she decides. 

And Peter knows what they’re doing now. They’re playing some weird game of chicken because neither of them want to lose. Peter already lost, so he doesn’t know why it’s important that MJ caves first. He doesn’t want to sleep with Kitty, and he doesn’t want to have a threesome with Kitty and MJ, and MJ knows that.

But Peter likes the skeptical surprise in the crease between her eyebrows as he nods his head toward the hallway. “After you.”

They end up in Peter’s bedroom after MJ refuses to let Kitty and Peter into hers, blocking the door with her body. Kitty helps Michelle’s case by saying she and Peter flipped his mattress earlier, and it feels like another relevant tally in Peter’s loss column. 

He rocks on the balls of his feet, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. “So, um, what now?”

“You two should kiss first,” Kitty hums. “Yeah. I’d like to see that.”

“Oh, um, actually--” Peter starts to protest. 

“What?” MJ asks evenly. “Are you backing out?”

Peter swallows. “No.”

“Just kiss each other,” Kitty says, moving to rest a nudging hand against both of their shoulders. “We’ll all ease into it. Like I said, this is new to me, too.”

“Who said it’s new to me?” MJ spits.

She’s nervous. Peter can tell by the quick cut of her eyes from Kitty to Peter, the quick bite to the corner of her mouth, one thumb pushing at the quick of her nails. 

“Sorry,” Kitty says. Peter watches her rub MJ’s shoulder, but it only serves to make MJ more tense. 

She shoves Kitty’s hand away and looks at Peter again. “Come on. Kiss me, nerd.”

Peter blinks. Her eyes are wide and golden brown, but closed off. Her words a challenge, because that’s all this is.

He can do this. He can keep surprising her, beat her at whatever moronic, convoluted game they’re playing. Some twisted version of truth or dare, rolling the dice and getting snake eyes, the beer going to his head in True American and stepping off his chair to push it when he can’t seem to reach anything to scoot himself along, everyone yelling at him that he’s dead. 

He can do this.

Her hands move to his shoulders, her thumbs warm against the curve at the base of his neck. Peter shivers, more from fear than anticipation. MJ is taller than him, always has been, but Peter has never thought about it much until now, even though she’s in her socks and she towered over him in heels during the wedding. He’s aware of her, like she could consume him. 

Peter looks at MJ’s mouth, a tight, flat line on her face.

He’s never thought about kissing her before, either. 

She huffs, exasperated. Her thumbs press into his skin, and she leans forward, down an inch.

Peter leans, too. Eyes screwed shut. 

He can do this, he can do this, he can do this.

_Fuck_. 

He can’t do this.

He pushes her back gently, just enough force to stop her slow movements. “You win.”

He opens his eyes, finds hers.

She’s beautiful, and her eyes are wide and just as terrified as he feels, but her mouth slides into a smug little smirk that looks almost out of place on her face. She blinks, shoves him back a little bit more, hands dropping. 

She says, “I knew it,” half arrogant and half breathless. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Kitty asks. 

Looking at Kitty seems to break the spell, because MJ laughs, and Peter feels a new flush in his cheeks, creeping down his neck.

He does his best to apologize. 

Turns out, despite being sure he doesn’t actually want to kiss MJ, now that his brain has considered it, sometimes, when he’s asleep, his mind trudges the idea up, bringing it to the forefront and playing out weird scenarios to make it happen.

Kitty’s usually there when it begins, physically forcing them together with icy palms stretching between shoulder blades.

But she always dissolves, disappears, as the dream continues. 

As long as it’s just happening when he’s asleep, Peter elects to ignore it. Chalks it up to Boy Brain. 

Liz tells him that’s not a thing. 

He asks why boy brain isn’t real but women’s intuition is. 

She shakes her head and says, “Everybody has intuition, but women and minorities are more in touch with theirs because society teaches us that if we’re not, we’ll get murdered, and even if we are, we might get murdered.”

“That’s … dark.”

“MJ explained it to me, and it actually does make a lot of sense.”

Peter sighs.

He admits that it does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I a) know nothing about Kitty Pryde and b) feel like she really got the one-off sitcom character treatment here. Very sorry, but not sorry enough to do anything about it.
> 
> Main _New Girl_ episodes used in this chapter: 1x01: Pilot, 1x03: Wedding, 1x12: Landlord.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I know,” he whispers. _
> 
> _She bites around a half-smile, warm and lovely. “What do you know?”_
> 
> _Peter blinks. _
> 
> _He doesn’t know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the feedback to the first chapter. I appreciate every kudos, bookmark and comment. Your words were all especially motivating and helped push me to get this chapter out as soon as I could. 
> 
> There's a brief cancer scare in this chapter. I don't think it's bad, but just in case.

Peter swirls his straw around his glass, the ice clinking as it whirlpools around and around. He rests his elbow on the bar, cradles his cheek in his palm and glances left, then right: a pair of girls eat peanuts at the other end of the bar, a guy twirls by himself in front of the jukebox; every time the Cheap Trick song he selected ends, he feeds the machine more money and plays the track again. Michelle shakes somebody’s drink, using both hands like she always does. 

Peter asked once if she ever tried it one-handed, and she said, “Yes.” No elaboration. 

When MJ moved to take somebody else’s order, Ned leaned over and whispered, “She used to try sometimes, but then the lid slid open and she spilled mai tai all over herself.” He shook his head, chuckling. “Even got in her hair.”

Now, Peter takes another sip of his drink, the paper straw damp, feeling close to disintegration. 

A woman leans against the bar, a foot away, leg jiggling and toes tapping along to “Surrender.” 

Peter pokes at a melting ice cube with his straw, ignoring it in favor of taking another sip directly from the glass. He turns on his stool and surveys the rest of the bar: there’s a couple making out in one of the booths, one guy dribbles beer onto his chin when he drinks, and a group of women stand outside the bathroom, chatting and laughing and swaying. 

Ned and Betty left half an hour ago.

Liz laughs with a cute girl in the corner, head tilting so she has to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. It’s not a move, but it could be, Peter thinks. He’s fairly certain nobody could resist Liz, and she’s a good enough person -- the best Peter knows, after May -- that it’s a compliment, no hidden meaning about how resisting her would be better. It might actually be worse.

He spins back around and catches MJ shoving a tip into the little jar by the cash register, a scowl across her mouth that means the money isn’t enough for the size of the bill. He meets her eye, and she shakes her head before turning to the drunk girl pushing her way to the bar, waving a five in the air. 

The woman next to Peter sighs.

“She’ll be over in a minute,” he says. 

“I know.” The woman shoots him a smile. “It’s not her fault alcohol really goes to people’s heads after 1 AM.”

Peter laughs, because maybe the alcohol has gone to his head, too. “She’s really good at paying attention to the order people come up in. I don’t know how she sees everything.” 

The bar is in the center of the room, a giant oval. It’s like MJ has eyes in the back of her head. 

Kind of spooky, but kind of cool. It makes her good at her job. 

The woman hums like she doesn’t quite believe that’s true.

“What?” Peter asks.

“She’s looped around to talk to you a bunch.”

“Just checking in.” Peter shrugs. “Making sure I don’t need a refill.”

“She knows the order in which people come up to the bar for a drink, but she can’t tell if your clear glass is empty?”

Peter smiles, a small thing. “She definitely can. But we’re friends, and if she’s talking to me then less drunk guys will hit on her, I think.”

She had a bad experience last Saturday. 

Sunday morning she slept longer than usual, unleashing her anger at two in the afternoon, gulping down an entire pot of coffee before explaining how much men suck, how they’re entitled little rats who think they know everything, and how they take up so much space with their stupid bodies and stupid egos and little dicks. 

Peter suspects MJ’s rage masked some sort of fear, but he wouldn’t tell her that because then he’d get an entirely different rant. 

Deservedly so. But, still. 

“Ah,” the woman says, nodding. “Just a friend, or a boyfriend?”

Peter clears his throat. He does not think about how he’s thought about kissing her. “Just a friend. Roommate, actually.” He blinks. “But like-- We’re not-- That sounds-- We’re _just_ friends. Completely Platonic.”

Probably. 

Thinking about MJ playing with the hair at the nape of his neck while they kiss might not count as _completely platonic_, but it doesn’t count as anything else, either. It’s an unwanted thought, and Peter absolutely, 100%, does not want to kiss Michelle.

Not that he thinks she’d be a bad kisser or anything, because he’s considered it a lot, and in his dreams, it's always nice. 

Not in his dreams like _in his dreams_, but in his subconscious, manifesting in his actual dreams. His brain still can’t make sense of the situation with Kitty, is all, with Michelle’s thumbs pressing into his skin, and--

You know what? 

Peter doesn’t have to explain himself to himself. 

“I’m single,” Peter finishes.

“I’m Carlie,” she says, eyes playful and bright, holding out her hand.

Peter shakes it. “Peter.”

MJ comes by, ignoring Peter to close Carlie’s tab and get her the water she requests and a bowl of peanuts she doesn’t.

“Thanks,” Peter says. 

MJ shrugs. “Just doing my job.”

Peter learns that Carlie is a detective for the NYPD, really smart because she studied forensics, and as a pair of science nerds, they have a lot to talk about. She commiserates with Peter about the woeful inaccuracies of _CSI_ and almost every cop show she’s ever seen. “I can’t do it! I get so upset.”

Peter laughs. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“I tried to watch _The Shield_ with my friend Holly, but I complained the entire time. I think I ruined it for her.” Carlie scrunches up her nose and frowns. 

It’s cute. 

She’s cute.

“She’s actually right over there,” Carlie says, pointing behind Peter. 

He turns. There’s a group of women at a table, and when Carlie catches their eye, they all wave. Peter waves, too, feeling his face flush with heat. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you from your friends.”

“I’m not anywhere I don’t want to be,” she says, grabbing a peanut and rolling it between her thumb and forefinger.

Peter smiles, leaning over to nudge her gently. 

Twenty minutes later he meets Holly when she tells Carlie their friends are heading home.

Before leaving, Carlie asks for Peter’s phone, adds herself as a contact, and sends a text so she can save his number, too. 

He smiles when he reads it: _Remember to call him and ask if Boston Public is accurate_. 

Liz goes home with the girl she met, and Peter waits for MJ’s shift to end. 

When it does, she grabs her things from the back and finds Peter, pulling her hair out from underneath her coat. “You got her number?”

“Yeah.” 

The most positive endorsement MJ could give: “She and her friends are good tippers.”

Peter and Carlie see the latest _Fast and Furious_ movie with Ned and Betty. Betty hates it, says, “I can only suspend my disbelief so much.”

“I thought it was fun,” Carlie says. “But you’re right, a car doing all those flips and leaping over a canon like that is not actually possible.”

The back of her hand brushes against Peter’s, and he grabs it, quick, like he’s afraid she’ll go away if he doesn’t. “I liked it. I don’t know. It’s not about the action--”

“--which is totally awesome,” Ned interrupts.

“Totally,” Peter agrees. “But they’re a family, you know? They always believe in each other.”

“That’s really nice, Pete,” Betty says, soft and high, a hint of condescension burning the edges. But Peter’s learned that’s just how she speaks, so he doesn’t take it personally. 

Anymore.

“I like that,” Carlie says. Their hands swing between them. “It’d be impossible to do my job if I didn’t believe in people’s ability to be good.”

“Or commit murder,” Ned says. 

Carlie laughs. “Yeah, I guess so. But I talk to a lot more innocent people than guilty ones. I believe people are fundamentally good.”

Peter says, “Me too,” and sends her a smile. 

When he kisses her, she tastes sweet like Skittles and popcorn butter.

He learns that her father was a cop who died on duty a few years ago. He and Carlie used to attend baseball games together, and Carlie takes Peter to some batting cages to completely embarrass him. He ducks instead of even swinging at most of the pitches, and Carlie does that cliche thing where she stands behind him and shows him how to hit, body pressed close, warm and soft. 

Peter takes her to Delmar’s, tries to show her the beauty of a smushed down sandwich, the way all of the flavors seep together, but she says, “The bread is soggy.” 

He explains that May is the most important person in his life, that her resilience in the face of loss is something Peter can only aspire to, because even though May’s lost so much, she only ever talks about the things she’s been blessed with: her health, a job she loves bringing positive change to the community, and Peter. 

Carlie is sweet and kind, and Peter likes her. He likes the taste of her toothpaste kisses in the morning. He likes that he doesn’t really think about the possibility or impossibility of kissing MJ anymore, because he has Carlie to think about kissing, instead.

*

Peter revises the questions he wrote for last year’s physics final, altering some wording that confused his previous crop of students, focusing the material on the topics he stressed this year, and checking that it truly measures knowledge of concepts and ability to turn those concepts into answers using critical thinking skills.

His chemistry and AP chemistry finals are always easier to write and revise, but Peter still ends up teaching one block of physics. Every semester, without fail. 

Peter likes physics. It’s the most romantic of the sciences, but it feels like learning a foreign language compared to his chemistry blocks. He’s not going to stop teaching two sections of chemistry and two sections of AP chem. because Mr. Harrington insists student interest has increased -- as well as the school's AP scores -- based on Peter’s instruction. 

The AP scores are really what matter, but Harrington, like Peter, wants to believe teachers inspire instead of simply relay information that’ll be forgotten by the time the fireworks light up the sky on New Year’s Day. 

So he’s emphatic about Peter making chemistry as romantic as physics.

Whatever that means. 

Peter changes the numbers on a short answer question he likes, and Ned’s Christmas playlist begins another rendition of “Do You Hear What I Hear?”

Michelle slams her laptop shut. “Are you done yet?”

“Nope.” Ned grins, tossing more tinsel onto the tree in the center of the loft. “I still have to hang up the popcorn strings.”

“Can you at least play something other than the same ten songs while making our apartment look like the north pole threw up on it?”

“There are at least 20 different songs,” Ned says. “I’d let you look at the playlist to prove it, but I don’t trust you. Fool me once and all that.”

MJ groans.

Flash chooses this moment to dramatically swing open the door to his bedroom. “Do you like this one better?” 

MJ groans again. 

Ned says, “Oh, Jesus.”

Flash says, “Exactly.”

“Jar?” Peter asks.

MJ says, “Yes.”

Ned says, “Absolutely.”

Flash wears what Peter can only describe as sexy shepherd's clothing, complete with a herding cane and sparse, fake beard, brown robe and overly tight shorts, leaving too little to the imagination. 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I miss the sexy elf,” Ned says. 

“That’s so expected and boring,” Flash argues.

“Change right now,” MJ orders. “God is dead, and she’s rolling over in her grave.”

Peter snorts. MJ’s mouth is pinched, eyes narrowed in disgust. 

“Okay, I’ll go try on the reindeer one, and we can decide--”

Ned, MJ and Peter: “No!”

“None of you know how to party,” Flash grumbles, reaching into his shorts to throw some cash into the douchebag jar.

Peter cringes at the thought of where exactly on his body he was keeping it. 

“I can’t believe we agreed to go with him,” Ned says. 

MJ says, “Free alcohol.”

Peter says, “The Christmas spirit.”

“Don’t forget that I need to be out of there by ten,” MJ continues. “I have a midnight flight.”

Ned shimmies as “Last Christmas” starts up, head bobbing to a different rhythm than the rest of his body. “Why did you book a flight that late? And out of LaGuardia, right?”

“The literal hell of airports? Seems appropriate.”

Peter watches her, slouched in her chair, hand spread over her laptop like she’s deciding whether to open it back up or retreat to her room and shut her door on George Michael’s crooning and the overabundant display of red and green littering the rest of the apartment. Peter follows her blank stare to the windows. Well, not blank, she’s clearly thinking, but probably not about the windows. 

Or maybe she is.

Ned has covered them entirely in clings of Santa, Rudolph, and snowflakes. Could be enough to cause her eyebrows to pinch like that. 

“Why do you hate Christmas so much?” Peter asks. 

“Oh, no,” Ned whispers. 

MJ exhales, turning her neck to look at Peter. She taps her hand against the table once, in time with the song, actually.

“I mean, it’s nice, right? And you get to go home? See your Mom?”

“And the rest of my family,” she says. 

“Okay?” 

Peter doesn’t know what it’s like to have an extended family to annoy him, but he hears that’s a thing that happens. Aunts and uncles drinking too much, arguing over who gets to cut the turkey. Grandparents making passive-aggressive comments about their children’s lives, nieces and nephews knocking things over and shrieking in delight, and everyone sitting through long, Catholic masses so Great Grandma Gertrude feels good about their prospects in purgatory. 

MJ shrugs, hand curling around the edge of the table. She pulls herself up and grabs her laptop. “I have a deadline.”

Peter watches her walk away. Her gait is more determined than graceful, even leisurely there’s a purpose to it. Long, steady strides, shoulders hitched slightly forward. There’s an unexpected art in her walk because he knows she’s running away, but it feels nonchalant, masking any wall with boredom and busyness.

“She doesn’t like her family?” Peter asks. 

“She always misses her flight,” Ned answers.

He hums along as a version of “Santa Baby” Peter has never heard before comes tinkling through the speakers, carefully untangling a string of popcorn and cranberries Peter helped him with a few days ago. 

“Well, she won’t miss it this time,” Peter decides. 

Ned shakes his head, says, “Much to learn have you.”

Peter wakes up to Carlie’s elbow wedged underneath his back uncomfortably. 

He huffs out a breath, shifts away from said elbow and wobbles on the edge of the mattress, using his hand against the bed frame to avoid toppling onto the floor. After stretching his legs and flexing his toes, Peter carefully moves back toward Carlie, nudging her so he can get more comfortable. 

He wakes her up. 

She sniffles, paws at the hair forming a sparse veil across her face, and blinks her eyes open. She rolls onto her side and smiles, soft and easy. “Morning.”

“Hi.” Peter tries to smile back, but a yawn interrupts the gesture. 

The semester ended yesterday, Flash’s friends’ party is tonight, and tomorrow afternoon Peter’s heading up to Queens to spend a week with May. He’ll sleep in his childhood bed, eat too much takeout, and play too many editions of Trivial Pursuit, forever trying to find a cultural balance that’s fair to both of their generations. 

May’s boyfriend will drop by on the 25th, pretending he doesn’t spend at least half his time living in her apartment.

It’ll be good.

Peter has a monthly brunch date with May, they call weekly and text every couple of days, but Peter doesn’t spend long swatches of time with her anymore, so it always feels like a proper vacation when he does.

“I have something for you,” Carlie says, quiet across the space between them. “I don’t know if now’s the best time. Before the party, maybe?”

Peter blinks slow. “Whatever you want.”

“I’m excited to give it to you,” she confesses. And it does sound like one -- a confession -- the kind of quiet, almost embarrassed whisper sometimes mumbled across a screen to the priest in a movie. 

Peter’s never been to confession in the same way he’s never had a huge, family Christmas. 

“I have something for you, too,” he says.

Peter rubs at his eyes, tumbling out of bed to grab the gift Liz helped him pick out. They had linked arms, sharing an Auntie Anne’s pretzel and walking in zigzag patterns through the mall. Liz found a scarf for her mom, and Peter picked out a plushie, anatomically correct heart for Carlie.

Liz assured him it was stupid in the cute way Peter tends to be, even if he teaches chemistry and not biology, and reminded him that he and Carlie have only been dating for about a month. Peter didn’t need to do anything extravagant that would scare her away.

Relationship tumbleweed no longer rolling down a dusty road. 

Peter sits cross-legged on the bed, gift bag in his lap as Carlie pulls an envelope out of her purse. 

“Here,” she says, handing Peter the gift as she sits across from him on her thighs.

Peter gives Carlie her present before ripping the envelope open with some semblance of care. He still has to tuck his thumb back underneath the flap and rip again when it tears up instead of over.

He feels all the color drain from his face. That shouldn’t be possible, but he feels it.

“Two tickets to Paris,” he says, staring down at the paper in his hands, willing the words to change. 

“Yeah. I thought it’d be really fun,” Carlie says.

“And all I got you was…” Peter trails off, voice weak. 

“The anatomically correct heart of a 50-year-old non-smoker.”

Peter looks up.

Carlie smiles, hugging the stuffed heart against her chest. “I love it.”

Peter swallows around the dread making his entire body go cold.

“And I love you.”

Peter blinks. “Uh.” Shit. “Thank you.”

Her brow wrinkles, but her answering _You’re welcome_ sounds as sincere as can be.

_Shit_.

“What are you going to do about Carlie?” Ned asks. “Are you going to break up with her?”

“What? No. It’s Christmas. And then New Years, and before you know it, it’s Valentine’s Day, and then St. Patrick’s day, and nobody wants to be alone, then. So, no.”

“You’re not breaking up with her because of St. Patrick’s day?” MJ asks, not bothering to look up from her book. 

Flash says, “He’d have to pickle his own cucumber again.”

Peter’s eyes widen in horror, cutting to Flash, but then he sees more of Flash’s sexy reindeer costume, which is, in fact, not better than the sexy elf one, but somehow marginally less disturbing than the sexy shepherd. Peter could have gone his entire life without knowing any of that. 

“Gross,” MJ says. 

“Jesus, Flash, Jar.” Ned shakes his head like a disappointed parent before turning to Peter. “But don’t you think MJ has a point?”

“How?”

“Isn’t it like, I don’t know, mean to keep dating somebody just because you don’t want to hurt their feelings on Christmas?”

“Isn’t hurting somebody’s feelings on Christmas mean?” Peter asks, all genuine. 

Ned shrugs. “I guess so.” 

“I can promise you that pity dating somebody is worse than breaking up with them,” MJ says, glancing up at Peter as she turns her page. 

He shifts his weight from his heels to the balls of his feet.

“Wouldn’t you feel guilty?” she asks, tone threading between confusion and certainty. 

Peter probably would. He already does. His phone vibrates with a message, and he’s relieved it’s from Liz and not Carlie. “Yeah,” he admits. 

MJ nods, mouth a thin, sympathetic smile. 

Peter clears his throat and opens Liz’s message. She’s running late. 

Despite Ned and MJ insisting they can wait for her before heading out -- and MJ is very persistent, saying her eyes and ears are not ready for the onslaught of Flash-like people -- Flash pushes them toward the door, assuring Peter that if he cannot make it, that’s fine, just send Liz in his stead. 

Verbatim, Flash says, “in your stead,” like it’s the regency era.

Ned chuckles, and MJ offers to give him a linguistics lesson.

Liz rests her arm over the back of Peter’s desk chair. “She loves you?”

“I guess?” Peter shrugs, pacing his room.

“And what did you say?”

“Thank you,” Peter groans.

“How polite.” Liz smiles a soft curve, fond and amused. Potentially calming. 

“Like it’s the first act of a teen drama that ends in me saying it back after 30 minutes of angst.”

Liz hums, reaching up to adjust her red headband, sparkly bow at the perfect angle on top of her shiny hair. “So, you’re not in love with Carlie?”

“No!” Peter throws his hands up, and then pauses, eyes widening. “Oh.”

“Good realization or bad realization, Peter?”

“It’s only been a month. I’m not there, yet. I don’t know what to do. Liz, please tell me what I should do.”

“I can’t tell you what to do.”

“Yes, you can.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t.”

Peter sighs and flops onto his bed. The scene of the crime. Not that Carlie telling Peter how she feels is a crime, and not that Peter not echoing the words back is a crime, either, but. He feels bad. MJ was right about that, at least. “I’ve never been the person who cares less,” he says.

“Maybe it’s a good thing.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I know,” Liz says. Peter feels the dip of the mattress as she sits next to him, patting his thigh. “But you and Felicia have barely been broken up for six months. You thought you were going to marry her. So, maybe you don’t need something heavy right now. It’s okay not to be in love with Carlie yet.”

Peter looks up at Liz, and she looks down at him, serious and serene. 

Liz has known him since they were young, playing in the sandbox, pushing each other on the swings, awkwardly trying to waltz at a middle school dance. 

Liz was there for him when Ben died, accompanying him on silent walks around the park, asking if he and May would rather have burgers or pizza on her way over, watching old episodes of _The Real Housewives_ because reality television was the only thing his brain could focus on. 

And in turn, Peter was the first person Liz ever came out to, her voice shaking like it never does, because she likes girls, and she only likes girls, and her dad was always saying she was going to break so many boys’ hearts. Peter made a terrible joke about how that was still true, just not necessarily in the way Mr. Toomes meant, and Liz had smiled around a trembling laugh. 

She knows him better than anyone, and he trusts her implicitly. To Peter, Liz has never been wrong about anything. 

Maybe once or twice, but her track record is sparkling, just like her perfect GPA. 

Which she really didn’t need, seeing as she got swooped up by a modelling agency during her senior year of undergrad. 

The point: she’s right. 

Peter says, “You’re right.”

“You need to talk to her.”

“MJ told me to break up with her.”

Liz shakes her head, laugh light and airy and almost non-existent. “If you want to do that, then you should. But if you’re unsure, an adult conversation is probably a good start.”

Peter thinks about how warm he feels with Carlie, like rays of sunshine hitting his skin on a breezy day. She laughs nicely at most of his jokes, cares about people, and politely listened to MJ explain why the criminal justice system in this country is so corrupt and racist it can only be fixed by being completely dismantled and rebuilt from the ground up.

Carlie said, “I do my best to acknowledge and avoid my biases instead of insisting I don’t have them, and isn’t it better to have more good policemen and detectives than for me to quit my job?”

“Policemen,” MJ said, slow. “Sure. Until you’re scared, and all of society’s bullshit comes to the forefront and you react badly. Or some cop who was nice to you once fucks up, and you don’t say anything.”

“I do my best,” Carlie said with an easy shrug. 

MJ narrowed her eyes. “Right.”

Peter does like Carlie, and he likes spending time with her. He doesn’t like thinking about her saying those three, little, life-changing words. 

“An adult conversation is probably good,” he agrees. 

“See, you don’t need to let MJ talk you into everything,” Liz says, patting his thigh again before standing. “Come on, let’s go.”

“She didn’t talk me into anything.”

“You just asked me to tell you what to do. It’s not that hard to talk you into things.”

Peter scrambles up and after her, offended. “What about when you tried to convince me to ride the Cyclone, and I refused?”

“Not riding a roller-coaster because you’re scared is different. Your flight response overtakes your easily swayed nature.”

“What about when I said _Jupiter Ascending_ is a good movie? Because it is,” Peter argues.

Liz shrugs on her jacket, buttoning from the bottom. “We have a Christmas party to attend for your least favorite roommate, so let’s shelve this for the train.” 

Liz was on debate team in high school and college while Peter was busy playing the clarinet in band, so it’s not really an even match. 

Peter loses the argument 

Flash participates in a conga line around the apartment with a few people dressed in the same eye-burning way he is. Some guests wear ugly sweaters just like the ones Peter and Ned bought from a thrift shop last week, and even more people are dressed up nice, like Liz. MJ’s wearing a pair of jeans and a shirt with Mrs. Claus screen-printed on it. Peter doesn’t quite know what to make of that. He’s pretty sure it’s a joke, but he doesn’t want to guess wrong. 

He catches MJ’s eyes across the conga line, sending a quick, dorky wave that causes her mouth to twitch with the want to smile. 

Carlie got caught up doing paperwork at the station, but she’s on her way, and Peter’s trying not to think about it, because if he does, he’ll work himself up. Liz is lost to the crowd, charismatic and social, so finding her to talk him down is unlikely, as well as a surefire way to ruin her evening. 

Peter wastes time by checking his phone every other minute, drinking a glass of nonalcoholic eggnog, and complimenting somebody on the way their Rudolph sweater has a red, light-up nose. 

He’s bobbing his head to Mariah Carey when he gets a text from Carlie letting him know she’s here. He meets her at the snack table with sweaty palms and racing heart. “Hey.”

“Hi.” She smiles, hesitant, before pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Oh, sorry,” she giggles, wetting her thumb and scrubbing her lipstick from his skin. 

Peter blurts, “I need to talk to you.” He jerks backward, wiping at the spot Carlie’s thumb had been with his palm. 

“Okay.” She smiles again. Hesitant again. 

Peter’s stomach churns terribly. 

“We might have to leave early. MJ needs to get to the airport in an hour,” he says. It’s not what he means to say. 

Carlie frowns, brief and befuddled. “That’s okay.”

“This party isn’t even that fun.” It sounds like a plea, even though it’s true. The party is fine, but Peter would rather be back at the apartment, watching those old claymation Christmas movies like MJ suggested in a transparent attempt to get Ned and Peter to ditch at the last minute. 

“I’m really only here for you,” she says, leaning in conspiratorially. Instead of being light and breezy, it feels heavy. There’s too much responsibility in being the person who cares less, even if Carlie gave her heart to him willingly, the words considered and not a slip of the tongue. 

Peter likes her, but he doesn’t like this.

He panics. 

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

He shoulders through the crowd, shuffling too quickly and apologizing to everyone he bumps into before reaching the bathroom and sitting on the toilet lid, elbows on thighs, head in hands. He takes a few breaths, practices an opening line: “Carlie, I like you … I really appreciate … Thank you for … Carlie, I know that I … I’m sorry if …”

Knocking interrupts the poor attempt at a script he’s drafting.

“Peter?” Liz asks. 

He doesn’t say anything, just yanks the door open and lets her in before sitting again. 

“I saw you run away from Carlie. Is everything okay?”

“No,” he mumbles.

He’s the one turning his life into a teen drama. There’s nobody to blame but himself. 

“Is she upset?” Liz asks. 

“I haven’t talked to her yet.” Peter rubs at his eyes before blinking away the fog and looking at Liz. “If this is how Felicia felt, no wonder she cheated on me.”

“Hey,” Liz says, firm and no nonsense. “That’s not funny. You didn’t deserve that.”

“I know,” he groans. “It’s just weird to feel like I have the power to break her heart. And it’s not even that she’s in love with me, it’s that she … can’t break my heart back, you know?”

“You have to talk to her,” Liz says. “Sitting here isn’t going to make you feel better.”

Peter pleads like a child asking to stay up past their bedtime. “Five more minutes?”

Liz laughs, slides down to the floor, her legs stretched out in front of her and crossing at her ankles. “Five minutes.”

It’s five minutes too long, because when he finds Carlie, she’s talking to MJ, and when MJ finds Peter making his way over, she shakes her head, eyes widening and mouth turning into a straight, strained smile. 

“Hey guys,” Peter says. 

Carlie turns her head, and it feels ominous. “You’re breaking up with me?” 

“Sorry,” MJ says, “Misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding?” Peter repeats, the word thick and uncertain on his tongue. 

“I thought you already ended it,” MJ offers.

“I’m not breaking up with her.”

MJ says, “You’re not?”

Carlie says, “You’re not?”

“No. God.” Peter pulls at his hair. “I’m so sorry. Can we go somewhere and talk?”

“There’s a balcony,” MJ says. “People are smoking out there, but you won’t have to contend with an off-key karaoke version of the ‘The 12 Days of Christmas.’”

Despite the fact that MJ took it upon herself to tell Carlie that Peter was going to break up with her, as though it wasn’t MJ’s idea in the first place, Peter and Carlie take her suggestion, grabbing their coats from the closet before standing on the balcony. 

It hasn’t snowed yet this winter. The forecast says maybe on the 26th.

It’s still below zero, and Peter pulls his hat down over his ears. 

The silence between them felt loud in the noise of the party, and it feels even louder now with only the hushed chatter of two smokers and traffic to break it up. 

Peter opens his mouth, inhales, trying to figure out how to start anew. When his brain feels like the early morning frost that melts away by ten, he exhales, watching his breath ghost in front of him before fading away. 

“Saying we need to talk doesn’t sound much better than telling me you want to break up with me. It just sounds like the part that comes right before you break up with me,” Carlie says, nose already pink. 

“It’s not,” Peter tries. “It’s just-- You said you love me.”

“Oh. Yeah. I do.” Carlie’s cheeks flush too. 

“And I’m-- I usually rush into relationships,” Peter explains, hands moving aimlessly like they’ll help clarify his meaning. “I fall for people really fast, and I move really fast. I’m trying to learn how not to do that, because I was hurt pretty badly earlier this year. I want to make sure that it’s you, and not the idea of you. Or the idea of being in love.”

Peter takes a deep breath. 

“So, while the tickets are great -- incredible, honestly -- I think I need to give them back. Because I’m not there yet, and if we just slow down a little bit until we’re on the same page, until I’m ready, that would be good.”

Carlie tries to tuck a tendril of hair behind her ear, but the cotton of her glove sticks to the strand, static. “I can’t do that.”

Peter’s not in love with her, but he feels it akin to heartbreak. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” She nods. “I’m 30, and I want to get married.”

“So do I,” Peter offers, but it sounds flat even to his own ears.

“I feel how I feel, and if we’re not in sync, I don’t want to wait however long it takes for you to be ready. I can’t. I can’t just pause my feelings, and going backwards isn’t natural for me.”

“Makes sense.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Carlie’s eyes are wet, and she pushes her hair back again, fighting the wind. She bites her bottom lip. Peter sees it tremble. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I wish I was there.”

She nods. “I’m gonna head home. Thanks for inviting me.”

Peter says, “It was all Flash.”

“Well, thank him for me, too.”

“Okay.” 

There’s an awkward hug, and then Peter watches Carlie through the glass door until she fades into the crowd. His fingers are starting to go cold inside his gloves, his toes inside his shoes, and he almost wishes he were a smoker so he’d have a reason to keep standing out here while the winter spreads through his bloodstream. 

He wipes at his eyes, but he knows he’s not crying. 

Peter settles in a corner of the apartment by the terrible karaoke, sliding down the wall and plopping onto the floor. He feels guilt encroaching around the edges of his vision and sadness webbing itself around his heart. 

He knows he did the right thing. 

And he can’t blame Carlie for doing the right thing for herself.

But it doesn’t feel good. 

It’s not fair that getting dumped by someone he didn’t have the chance to love hurts in a way that’s all too familiar, like six months ago, ending a relationship with someone he did love. 

MJ finds him nodding along absently to “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” Wordlessly, she sits next to him, close enough that he can feel her presence, but far enough away that they’re not actually touching. 

Peter waits for the guy to finish yodeling, and between the scuffle about who gets to make everybody’s ears bleed next, he says, “Hey.”

“I missed my flight.”

Whatever Peter was feeling melts away as he scrambles to his feet. “What? Oh my god, you have to go to the airport.”

“Peter, it’s 30 minutes until midnight,” she says. “And we’re a 30 minute Uber to LaGuardia.”

“Your flight isn’t until 12:15,” he tries, waving her up. 

“I missed it.” She shrugs. “I’ll text my mom, and then I’ll book a new flight tomorrow.”

“You don’t even want to try? Come on.” 

MJ rolls her eyes. “Sit down.”

Peter sighs. It’s 30 minutes to midnight, he’s freshly single, and he’s usually asleep by 10. He takes his spot back, crossing his legs like storytime in elementary school, pulling his knees up 30 degrees so he doesn’t take up too much space. He wraps his arms around his legs and clasps his hands together.

“Did Carlie understand?” MJ asks.

“She broke up with me.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you’d already broken up with her. I didn’t know. I was just trying to be sympathetic or something.” She picks at a loose thread at the bottom of her shirt, a few curls escaping the bun on top of her head. The hair tie she used is red. They’re usually black. “I didn’t mean to steal your thunder.”

Peter chuckles, humorless. “I wasn’t going to break up with her, MJ.”

“I thought you were,” she says, plain. 

“I changed my mind. But I guess it didn’t matter. She didn’t want to wait for me to catch up.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees. “Almost as much as this rendition of this song.”

“Your request?” MJ asks. 

“No, but I can put in “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” for you.”

Her mouth twitches up. “If you want to ruin a Bing Crosby classic, I’m not going to stop you.”

She reaches up, grabbing a piece of hair and stuffing back into the red elastic. Methodically, she gets every wild strand. It doesn’t look any neater when she’s finished, but Peter likes it just the same. “You want to go watch those stop-motion movies since I’ve been dumped and you purposefully missed your flight?”

“I never said it was on purpose.”

“Right. Of course not.”

She tilts her head, looks at him from the corner of her eye. “Let’s go.”

Flash stays to make-out with a sexy snowman, Liz heads back to her place to sleep, and Ned takes a call from Betty the minute they step off the subway platform. She’s visiting her Grandma in Arizona, and Ned’s taken to acting like she’s died.

When Peter voices this observation, MJ offers, “If she’s in Arizona, she might be better off dead.”

Peter changes into his pajamas and puts water on for tea, setting two teabags into two mugs and starting a bag of popcorn in the microwave, watching it spin around and around. He listens as the popping increases. He’s never really been able to figure out how long to cook it; one day, two and a half minutes leaves half the kernels unpopped, but the next they’re burned, so he figures it’s safest to stay in the kitchen and wait it out. 

When everything is ready, tea steeping and timer set, he knocks on Michelle’s door.

“Come in.” 

Peter freezes, knuckles still pressed against the wood. 

He’s never been inside MJ’s room before. Could not even begin to guess what it looks like. Hasn’t thought about it. Never expected to see her door wide open. Never expected to be invited inside.

He stands there, moves his hand to the knob. It’s cool underneath his palm. 

He jumps back when MJ swings the door open. 

“What?” she asks. 

“The tea’s almost done,” Peter says.

“Okay.” Her face shifts like Peter’s being weirder than usual. “Bring it in here when it’s done. We’re watching _The Year Without a Santa Claus_.”

“That one’s my favorite.”

“It’s everybody’s favorite,” MJ says, half-closing the door before she seems to think better of it. She retreats back into her room, door ajar, and Peter retreats back into the kitchen for the popcorn and tea. 

When he brings the snacks in, she grabs the popcorn bowl tucked between his elbow and side, saying if he spills tea on her bedspread she’ll make sure he stubs his toes so hard he won’t be able to walk on it for weeks.

Peter does his best to look around without looking like he’s looking around. She has a bed, obviously, giant, fluffy cream duvet wrinkled on top of it. A dresser, a desk, two bookshelves, and one nightstand, littered with about five coasters and a stack of five books. None of the furniture matches. MJ’s room is cozy, a pine candle burning, making the place smell like Christmas. 

He didn’t expect her room to be some secret lab, a bulletin board with newspaper clippings linked together by string, pickled organs in mason jars. But it’s surprisingly normal, right down to the mess that feels lived in: shoes akimbo next to her dresser, empty hanger swinging on the handle of her closed closet door, big, open book on her desk, capped pen nestled between the pages. 

MJ closes the door, and Peter settles on her bed, tension pulling all his muscles taut. He can’t shake the feeling that he doesn’t belong here.

She lets him use the nightstand, see previous statement about spilling on sheets, and he sets his mug on a coaster. MJ puts the popcorn bowl in his lap, pulls her desk chair to the end of her bed, and sets her laptop on it. They sit side-by-side on her bed.

It doesn’t make sense.

They could easily connect her laptop to the TV, watch on the big screen and spread out on the sofa.

But he’s in her room. 

He notices one of Ned’s wreaths hanging on the back of her door. 

Huh. 

As the movie plays, they shift, bodies barely brushing. Peter is hyper-aware of everything, so he’s hyper-aware of that, too.

MJ’s nervous. He can tell whenever he chances a look at her. Hands wrapped around her mug, grip just a little too tight, pajama pants riding up and exposing her ankles, flexing her feet sometimes, like maybe she’s hyper-aware of her body, too. She mouths along to Heatmiser’s song, and Peter presses his lips together so he doesn’t smile too big and let anything slip out about her being dorkier than she lets on.

The quiet feels too important for him to ruin. 

Mother Nature orders her sons to help, and MJ says, “I missed my flight on purpose.”

“Oh.” Peter swallows a piece of popcorn he should have chewed a little more. He chokes out, “Yeah. I know.”

MJ is quiet again. 

For what feels like forever.

“My mom thinks I’m going to skip Christmas altogether, so she always buys my plane ticket.” She clears her throat. She’s still staring at her laptop, but Peter’s looking at her. Face washed out from the blue light. 

“It’s just that everybody comes over, and I can’t go anywhere to be alone. They’re all talking over each other. Yelling and laughing. But I can still feel them all holding their breath. Waiting to see if my dad is going to show or not. I try to skip the waiting.”

Peter picks up his mug, takes a sip of peppermint tea that’s gone lukewarm. 

“I can’t tell my mom that. She--” MJ exhales, shoulders sagging. “She adores him. It would make her feel awful, but it wouldn’t change anything.”

Various apologies melt against Peter’s tongue, platitudes Michelle would roll her eyes at, gratitude she’d roll her eyes at, too. “She might start buying your ticket for Christmas Eve instead of the 21st,” he says.

MJ snorts, shaking her head. “I’m trying to watch a movie, Peter.”

“Sorry.” 

He bumps her shoulder, and the silhouette of a smile plays against her mouth.

*

“That doesn’t go there,” Flash says.

“If you know what you’re doing,” Ned mumbles, picking up another Lego, “You can help us.”

Peter grabs the instructions that Ned tossed into the trash the moment they started building the Millennium Falcon, insisting half the fun is figuring it out themselves.

Peter’s instilled reading all the directions before beginning a lab into his students enough times that he immediately fished them out of the garbage. “Just in case,” he had said. 

It’s been two hours, Flash lounging on Ned’s bed, critiquing and mocking them in equal turn. They’re not very far along at all for all the work they’ve done during those two hours. Even though Peter knows it should take them twice as long to finish, he suspects it’ll take even longer when Ned realizes they’ve messed something up. 

Flash says, “Pfft, Legos are for kids.”

Ned says, “Trix are for kids.”

MJ says, “More than one thing can be for kids.”

Peter looks up at her as she leans against the jamb. “MJ, if you were building a Millennium Falcon, would you use the instructions?”

“That’s like putting a puzzle together while looking at the picture on the box.”

“A good idea?” Peter tries. 

“Takes all the fun out of it,” she says. 

Peter groans. “Yeah, but if it’s not right, we're going to have to take at least half of this apart.”

A sly smirk curls her mouth. “I meant for me. The joy of Ned kicking at whatever he’s made and then apologizing to it like he’s hurt the feelings of a bunch of plastic bricks cannot be replicated.”

Ned’s cheeks turn a faint pink, and he shakes his head. “Like you didn’t help me put the Ewok Village together.”

“You have no proof.”

“We’re still an hour away from the show,” Flash tells her.

“Eh.” She shrugs. “I just wanted to let you all know that you might need to find a new roommate.”

“We’re finally kicking Penis out?” Flash asks. 

MJ rolls her eyes. “I found a lump in my breast, so I might be dying.”

Flash says, “What?”

Ned says, “What?”

Peter says, “What?”

“You need to go to the doctor!” Ned scrambles to his feet. He steps on a stray Lego, screams and starts hopping around. But he manages to grab his keys off his desk.

Peter would laugh if his throat hadn’t gone so dry.

Ned tilts his head toward the door. “Come on, MJ, early detection is key.”

“We can take my car,” Flash says.

Peter, Ned and MJ often make fun of him for bothering to have a car in the city. He just says they’re jealous he can afford it, and MJ snorts, “Yeah, have fun sitting in traffic while a train that’s running 30 minutes late still gets me there faster.”

Now, she says, “Relax. I scheduled an appointment for tomorrow. And you,” she pauses, glaring at Flash. “I was expecting some juvenile comment. I planned on using the $50 that would net me to help pay the doctor’s bill. If I have cancer, I’m going to need some extra cash.”

“Um,” Flash hesitates. “Those mosquito bites are big enough for a lump?”

“Eh, it’s not the same.”

“Are you okay?” Peter manages, voice too high, on the verge of breaking. 

“Yeah, fine,” she says, nonchalant, the shoulder not against the doorframe going up and down in a half-shrug. 

“Do you want to get drunk?” Flash asks.

MJ frowns, but she says, “Sure.”

Betty and Liz join them at the bar. 

MJ nurses a beer during the first hour, and Peter talks too much. He tells stories about his students: Phil trying to get away with wearing baseball hats in class, so committed to the cause that he brings Peter a Mets one so they match, even though Peter knows that Phil is a Yankees fan. Gross. Brittany spells her name Britney on every homework assignment and quiz because she insists she was named after Britney Spears. Ryan scarred his hand on a Bunsen burner, and Jessa had her mother complain when she was placed into another physics teacher’s class.

Nobody cares. 

Flash unceremoniously leaves their booth, bringing back a round of shots, two for MJ. Peter watches the slope of her neck as he swallows the first. 

The alcohol goes down hot, but it doesn’t burn. 

“Breast cancer is the second most common cause of death among women,” Ned says, scrolling through his phone. 

“Babe,” Betty whispers, gentle, placing a hand over his. “Right now might not be the best time to research.”

“The chance a woman will die of breast cancer is 1 in 38.”

She sighs. “The five-year survival rate is 90%?”

“I don’t really need to know any of this,” MJ says.

“If it’s contained to the breast, the five-year survival rate is 99%,” Betty offers.

MJ exhales, posture rigid, the line of her mouth sharp. Her eyes blank and clouded over instead of narrow or focused. She doesn’t say anything, nothing sarcastic, nothing to stop Ned and Betty from rattling off numbers that terrify or assure. It’s like the alcohol has soaked her through, and now the brave, nonplussed front she wore at the apartment can’t hold its shape. 

She doesn’t allow fear to mar her features, but the lack of anything at all is even worse. 

“Did you guys know there’s a piano over there?” Peter interrupts, pointing to a back alcove he never pays attention to. 

“I can play,” Liz jumps in. 

Peter shoots her a grateful look. 

God, she’s the best best friend he’s ever had. 

She plays “Für Elise” three times before Flash asks, “Do you know any other songs?”

“Not really.” Liz laughs, a light, charitable thing. She plays “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” Ned and Betty singing along quietly and swaying to the familiar melody. 

It’s weird, because Peter feels happier now than he thinks he ever did in the last year of his and Felicia’s relationship. Ned bought him a bagel with extra cream cheese and lox for breakfast this morning, he read MJ’s article centering the surviving family of a murder instead of the murderer, a dissertation at the end of the piece about the tendency to glorify evil instead of goodness, and Flash leaned over the edge of Ned’s bed earlier, hitting Peter’s arm to warn him that he was putting a Lego in the wrong place. 

Mostly to call him dumb, but whatever. Still helpful. 

Peter hasn’t heard Liz play in a few years, no piano at her apartment, just the one at her parents’, and he can tell she’s rusty, hands fumbling over the keys, posture too hunch to be right. But it’s nice, notes tempered by the music playing over the bar’s speakers, the sound of the other customers mingling at 11 on a Saturday night. 

Its weird, because Peter is happy, but he feels Michelle’s doctor’s appointment looming over the feeling, foreboding.

He’s not sad, not yet. 

But he could be. 

Knowing he could be is weird.

Flash grabs another round of shots for everyone, but Betty gives MJ hers, and MJ takes Peter’s because he leaves it on the piano, saying, “You’ll stain the wood, loser.”

Her eyes go glassy after that.

Liz plays a few scales, and then Ned starts singing, “Michelle Jones, Michelle Jones, she’s my best friend.”

“Has a lot of split ends,” Flash adds, voice curving around the uneven melody. 

Betty’s brow wrinkles, and MJ expels a light, airy sound, close to a laugh. 

“A celebration of Life!” Ned says, smile taking over his face. Liz’s fingers slow to a stop, but Ned nods at her. “Keep playing. I got this.”

He cracks his knuckles.

Straightens his spine.

“Michelle Jones, Michelle Jones, talent down to her bones,” Ned sings. Liz plays a new chord, lets it vibrate around the small alcove. “Paid off all her student loans.”

“Never seen _Attack of the Clones_,” Flash adds.

“That’s not true!” Ned answers, voice vibrating around his falsetto. 

“Has answers to all the unknowns,” Liz says, playing down the piano, notes getting lower, ringing louder and longer. “Her friends calls her MJ, would never lead you astray, knows how to play, leaves you blown away, more expensive than your last payday, hotter than the month of May, won’t take you there, anyway. Can’t even get midway--” Another two chords, almost dissonant in sound: “Not even in your dreams.”

Betty giggles.

Flash says, “Do you have a rhyming dictionary somewhere?”

Michelle’s folded her arms over the top of the piano, resting her chin on them. She closes her eyes, hums a little, neither impressed nor unimpressed.

Peter gets that. Nobody said anything about her. Nothing real, anyway. Nothing that matters. Nothing that makes her who she is, and Peter hates that. 

Sure, she’s smart, an incisive writer, has probably seen every _Star Wars_ movie with Ned, and yeah, she’s really attractive. 

Those thoughts about kissing her never quite faded completely. Sue him.

But if she has cancer, those aren’t the important things. 

“Michelle Jones,” Peter manages as Liz presses down one solid, haunting note. “Too scared to be known.”

She opens her eyes, blinks, mouth twitching down in a frown.

“Jar,” Flash slurs.

Peter shakes his head. “What do you want to do, MJ? If you could be anywhere right now, where would you be?”

She stares at him, eyes wide, face more open than usual in her drunken haze. He can sense her sobering up as she stands, taking her weight off the piano. “I don’t know.”

“You want to spend the rest of your night getting drunk in the bar where you work?” he asks, almost believing that may be true. 

But she deserves better than that.

She could have it, too, open her arms and be accepted by anybody here, publish an article somewhere other than her WordPress blog, finish her book, change the world the same way she’s made Peter’s life better just by living across the hall. 

Liz likes her, Betty likes her, Flash and Ned love her, and Peter--

He doesn’t want to live in a world where MJ’s potential cuts itself short. 

“Let’s go to the beach,” she says.

When they arrive, the dead lights of Coney Island across the way, Flash strips off his clothes and runs into the water. 

He shrieks about how cold it is, and MJ giggles. It’s a sound Peter’s never heard spill out of her before, and he files it away. Morbidly hopes there’s enough time to figure out if it’s purely a tipsy thing. 

Ned and Betty lace their hands together, shoes and socks shucked off, pants rolled up so the waves lick at their ankles as they walk along the shore. Liz squeezes Peter’s hand, says she’s going to look for rocks to skip, and trails after them. 

That leaves Peter and MJ. 

Standing too far from the water for it to touch them. 

“You want to go in?” Peter asks. 

“No.” She plops down, knees bent. 

Peter sits next to her and watches the waves lap gently against the sand. He can see the moon. It looks full, but he knows it isn’t, is still waxing, waiting. The city lights and smog still block the stars, the sky looks dark blue instead of black, and the smell of New York is sweeter than usual, salty like taffy. 

He lets the almost-quiet wash over them, as quiet and NYC ever gets, his breathing even and calm. 

Michelle breaks first, which is the last thing Peter would’ve expected. 

“You’re thinking too loud,” she says, brusque. 

So, not exactly the _last_ thing he expected.

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

He looks at her. The slope of her nose, the line of her jaw, the flutter of her hair in the breeze. All things that shouldn’t matter but make something flip in his stomach. 

“About what?” she asks.

“What I said in the bar. I know that’s not true, MJ.”

Peter doesn’t say that it’s not untrue, either.

She shrugs. “I know you know.”

“I just,” Peter sighs, ducking his head and running a hand through his hair. He feels like he didn’t drink enough for this conversation. “There’s so much you haven’t done yet. I want you to be able to do it all.”

“I’m not dying,” she says. 

Peter feels his eyes go wide. “I didn’t-- The lump-- I’m sorry-- I just meant--”

“Shut up, dork.” Her eyes swim, and Peter knows she’s not as sober as she seems. Her words are poised, but there’s a drunk honesty to the tilt of her mouth. “I know.”

“I know,” he whispers. 

She bites around a half-smile, warm and lovely. “What do you know?”

Peter blinks. 

He doesn’t know. 

She can turn him inside out so easily, make him feel like he’s the one on the hot seat, he’s the one with too much alcohol swirling around his stomach. Like his brain stops firing, and his heart stops beating. MJ throws him off-kilter, and Peter doesn’t even mind. It’s fun, exciting, and her eyes are bright and challenging. 

“You like olives on your pizza.” His voice sounds like he said something special and secret. 

Her mouth falls open into the smile she was holding back. “I like you, Peter,” she offers. “’m glad you’re around.”

Just the hint of a slur. 

It feels a lot more special and secret than what he said. 

“Me too,” Peter returns. 

He wants to kiss her. 

He’s awake, even if it’s past midnight, exhaustion an excuse within his grasp. 

She’s somewhere between tipsy and drunk, has a doctor’s appointment tomorrow that could be nothing. But it could be cancer. It wouldn’t feel right to kiss her now.

Wouldn’t be right to kiss her at all, he doesn’t think. 

So Peter lets the thought float away on the breeze as MJ scoots closer, hair brushing against his cheek. 

She leans her head on his shoulder, watches Flash try to wring his shirt out, and sniffles. She doesn’t say she’s scared, even though Peter knows she is.

He’s scared, too. 

Peter awakens to the quick _beepbeepbeep_ of the alarm on his phone and Liz groaning. “Turn that off,” she says.

He grumbles, hitting his hand against his nightstand once before finding his phone and turning off the alarm. 

He sets his cell back down.

Exhales. 

Closes his eyes, tugs the sheet over his body, annoying Liz because it’s tucked underneath her. Peter tries to fall back asleep. 

And then he remembers. 

_Fuck_. 

He grabs his phone again, squinting at the time: 8:03. He forgot to charge it last night, battery drained to 12%. He fumbles for the cord, shoves it into the socket and prays, not literally, that he has more than 10 minutes to get ready. 

Peter rolls out of bed, hitting his knee, hard, on the frame. “Shit,” he gasps.

“Please be quiet,” Liz mumbles into a pillow. 

“MJ’s appointment,” he reminds her.

She blinks, rolling onto her back and pushing up onto her elbows. “Are we all going to that?”

“You don’t have to, but I am.” He runs a hand through his hair and tugs on the pair of jeans he threw over his desk chair when they got in last night.

Liz sits up fully, reaching her arms above her head and stretching. “Does she even want you there?”

Peter freezes. He doesn’t know. Didn’t ask. 

“Oh. Maybe she--”

“Peter!” Ned creaks the door open. “Oh, hey Liz. Don’t worry, I’m a taken man,” he says, eyes flitting to her. She’s wearing one of Peter’s old marching band T-shirts and gray sweatpants, the covers still pulled over her legs. Her eyebrows furrow, confused. 

“We’re leaving in five minute,” Ned says. He nods once before closing the door. 

“How is he so chipper?” Liz asks, rubbing her temple. 

“I don’t know. You coming?”

She squints. “Why not?” 

Peter changes into a clean shirt, clean socks, and shoves on his shoes while Liz grabs her jeans and another one of Peter’s shirts, heading to the bathroom to change and wash her face. 

Ned and Betty are already in the kitchen, two spoons and one half grapefruit between them. “Hey Peter,” Betty says. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah, I guess.” He pours himself a glass of water. “Is MJ ready?”

He hears a grunt and looks toward the sound: she’s sitting on the sofa, head back and eyes closed. 

They’re on the subway before he realizes he forgot to brush his teeth. 

MJ goes in by herself, and the receptionist looks at them over the glasses sitting too low on her nose. “Anything I can help you with?” she asks, not quite polite.

Ned points at the door MJ walked through, says, “She’s my best friend.”

Flash says, “Actually, how many boobs do you see a day?”

Peter says, “Uh, no. Sorry.”

The woman wrinkles her nose and her glasses slip further.

“We’ll just sit,” Liz says, apologetic. 

Peter slumps into a chair as far away from the reception desk as possible, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. He breathes out through his nose until he feels like his stomach is going to fold in. 

“You okay?” Liz asks, sitting down. Peter opens one eye. She has an issue of _Scientific American_ she picked up from one of the end tables in her lap.

“It’s not really about me.”

Her eyes brim with the understanding that comes from knowing someone completely, with being friends for over half their lives. Half their lives an estimate that’s far too small for the years Peter and Liz have spent together. 

She looks at him like she knows something about him that he doesn’t. 

It’s not surprising. 

Liz is wonderful and wise, and it makes Peter feel better to know that even when he’s lost, Liz has found him. 

He grabs her hand. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she whispers.

Time feels like it stands still. Peter alters between closing his drooping eyes, watching the news on the muted television hanging in the corner, and leaning into Liz to scan parts of whatever article she’s currently reading.

Every time someone opens the door to the exam rooms, Peter’s head snaps up. He watches many women walk in and out, and none of them are Michelle. 

Until.

There she is. 

Hoodie over her arm, hair completely tangled, tired circles bruising underneath her eyes. 

Ned jumps up first. 

Then, half a beat later, the rest of them.

“So?” Ned asks. 

MJ shrugs. “I told you I was fine.”

Peter feels his entire body exhale with relief, like the clouds breaking when rain pours on a humid summer day, washing away the thick air so he can breathe again. 

Ned hugs her first. She huffs, arms trapped between their bodies. Flash wraps his arms around both of them, so Peter joins the fray, feels Liz pressing against his back and expanding the group hug. He knows Betty’s probably in here somewhere. 

Peter’s face smooshes against MJ’s hair. It smells vaguely like sand and sea, but mostly like nothing special. He feels her moving, one hand wrapping around his side, palm warm and solid against him. 

There’s a pause, and then: “Who’s buying me breakfast?”

Peter, Ned and Flash all volunteer, and on the way out of the doctor’s office, MJ slips her arms through her sweatshirt, slowing her pace to keep stride with Peter. “You didn’t do anything embarrassing last night, if you were wondering.”

Peter pauses, letting her exit the building first. She turns back to watch him catch the door when her hand drops. 

They’re side-by-side, walking to the 24-hour diner they passed on their way in. “Neither did you,” Peter answers, unable to detect whether she’s letting him know she remembers or fishing for details she doesn’t. 

MJ shoots him a small smile, futilely tucking a curl behind her ear. It curlicues right back out. “I know,” she says. 

The moment settles, and Peter swallows down the urge to say something cheesy and corny, something meant for the soft glow of the moon, not the harsh rays of the sun at a quarter until 11 on a Sunday morning. 

“By the way,” MJ says, stopping at the crosswalk, cars honking and swerving around each other just because they can. “Your breath stinks.”

Peter feels his face heat up, and he presses his palm against his mouth. “Sorry,” he mumbles. 

“Just breathe toward Flash.” Her smile is wry, and she bumps her shoulder against his.

Peter thinks about brushing that same curl back himself.

He flexes his hand by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _New Girl_ episodes used: 1x09: the 23rd, and 1x15: Injured.


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“She’s a really strong person,” Peter says. “MJ versus gorilla, right?”_
> 
> _Ned’s mouth curves into a weary smile. “Right.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never watched a Fantastic 4 movie, I think that's going to be very clear.

Shuffling into the kitchen, eyes bleary with sleep, Peter heads directly to the coffee pot, pouring himself the last cup from whatever was brewed this morning. He slides onto a stool, stirs in sugar, sips. 

When the fog from his brain clears, he registers what Flash and Ned are saying, but it doesn’t make any sense. 

Flash says, “Gorilla.”

Ned says, “MJ.”

Peter clutches the mug between his hands, eyebrow crinkling. 

“She’s a twig. There’s no way,” Flash says. 

“Yeah, but MJ’s smart, dude.”

“She’s going to beat a giant gorilla by outsmarting it?” Flash scoffs.

“Hold up, we never said it was a _giant_ gorilla.”

“What?” Peter asks. He burned his tongue on his coffee and scrapes at it lightly with his teeth. 

“Who would win in a fight: MJ or gorilla?” Ned asks. 

Peter slurps his coffee the way Felicia taught him. It’s meant to coat his tongue, really allow him to taste it, feel it. Also, it cools the coffee down. He’s already burned himself, so he’s not sure it matters now. He thought Felicia’s love of coffee was cool and sophisticated once, and now he reads it a little more pretentious. 

Like the slurping post-burn, it doesn’t really matter anymore.

“Gorilla?” Peter answers like he doesn’t quite understand the question. Probably because he doesn’t quite understand the question. 

“See? Even Penis can see reason, Leeds.” Flash throws out a fist, and Peter bumps it despite the insult.

“What! No way!” Ned shakes his head. “Top ten worst anime betrayals, dude.”

Peter frowns. “I’m sorry. I’m confused.”

“In a contest, MJ or gorilla?” Ned asks, leaning over the counter, eyes wide and pleading.

“What kind of contest?”

“You ruined it,” Flash says.

“If the contest is about geography the answer’s different than who can lift the most weight.”

Flash groans.

MJ enters the kitchen, messy bun flopping onto one side of her head. She shoots them all a look, wordlessly opening the cupboard and taking down two mugs. Her frown deepens when she notices the empty coffee pot. “Who?”

“Peter,” Flash tattles.

“I hate you,” MJ says before opening up the bag of grounds next to the pot.

“If it makes you feel any better, the coffee that was in there tastes burnt.”

“Hey!” Ned protests, reaching across the island to try and smack Peter. “If you don’t like my coffee, you could’ve just made your own.”

“Yeah,” MJ agrees, word stretching into a nice drawl. 

“Hey MJ, you versus gorilla?” Flash asks.

She doesn’t miss a beat: “Me.”

“I told you!” Ned shouts.

“But don’t you want to know why you’re facing off against a gorilla?” Peter asks. 

MJ hums, noncommittal, measuring scoops of coffee into the fresh filter. 

“It’s a competition,” Ned says. As though that clarifies anything.

Michelle fills the pot with water from the sink. The unfiltered water will mess with the flavor, and Peter knows that because of Felicia, too. 

“Still me,” she says, bending to make sure the water is measured correctly. Short wisps of hair not long enough for where her bun sits brush against the top of her pajama shirt. 

“I really don’t get it,” Peter says.

“One day you will,” Ned allows, nodding his head sympathetically. 

Peter twists his face, doubtful, before taking another sip of coffee. 

Instead of listening to the conversation, he blocks out whatever story Flash tells about whatever new club he went to Saturday night. 

Typical Monday. 

It’s a short week. For the students, at least. Teacher institute day on Friday, spring break after, meaning the kids are all going to be more rowdy and flighty than usual. Peter needs to pick up more laundry detergent on his way home, and maybe stop by the gym. 

MJ leans against the counter, arms crossed and eyebrows creased as she apparently listens to Flash.

Peter blinks, watching an unfamiliar man enter their kitchen like a hallucination. 

He blinks again, and no, it’s not an unfamiliar man. 

“Harry?” Flash asks, all disbelief and wide, excited eyes. 

“Hey, man.” Harry nods at him. “How’s your dad’s company?”

Flash shrugs. “Yours?”

“Touché,” Harry laughs. “Hey, Ned. Peter, right?” 

“Yeah,” Peter says. He feels like his brain is whirring in his head, overheating, like he needs to reboot it to make this make sense. 

“Sorry about you and MJ,” Harry offers, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “But not that sorry, you know?”

A sinking feeling pools in Peter’s stomach. “What?”

“But she said it was never that serious between you guys, so I guess it’s not weird that you live together.” He turns to MJ. “Oh, I meant to tell you, I drink my coffee with milk, not half-and-half.”

“Okay,” she says, like she doesn’t quite know why that information should be relevant. 

The coffee pot drip, drip, drips in the background.

Peter shares a look with Ned, like maybe both their brains are at risk of melting out of their ears like wet, hot tar, sticky and gross on a summer’s day. 

“When did this … thing … happen?” Ned asks. “Not that it isn’t, you know, _great_,” he says, the last word so mangled it might not even be English anymore. 

“Harry came by the bar last night,” MJ says.

Peter stares at her like maybe if he looks hard enough all the answers to all the questions he doesn’t even know to ask will ink themselves onto her forehead, her cheeks, her chin. But her expression is as unreadable as ever, her body loose and at ease with Harry touching her even if her arms are crossed over her chest. 

Peter nods in faux understanding.

“And?” Ned’s eyebrows furrow. His mouth tight and unsteady as though he’s trying very hard not to frown.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Flash asks. 

“You want the details?” Harry adds, amused and too smug.

Peter says, “No.”

Ned says, “No.”

Flash says, “About MJ?” And then pretends to gag.

“You’re all idiots,” MJ says before turning out of Harry’s arms and pouring two cups of coffee.

She drinks hers black, but adds a scoop of sugar to the other, stirring with a spoon before going into the fridge and using the quarter gallon of milk Peter always buys for his cereal. 

“Is that 2%?” Harry asks.

MJ shrugs.

“It’s fine,” he says.

“It’s all we have.”

“Only kids drink milk,” Flash says. 

“Uh, guess nobody ever told you it gives you strong bones and teeth,” Ned objects, offended. 

“You don’t even drink milk.”

“I would if Peter didn’t buy the watered down stuff.”

Harry says, “Yeah. Whole milk is the only way to go.”

“You’re getting what we have,” MJ says, screwing the cap back on and returning the carton to the refrigerator.

Peter clamps down on something -- whine, groan, scoff -- he isn’t sure, exactly, but he knows he doesn’t want it out in the open. He takes another sip of coffee. “I have to get ready for work.”

He takes his mug into his room while he changes, stomach grumbling, and when he comes back out, MJ and Harry are nowhere to be seen. He knows they’re back in her bedroom. 

He pops a couple of frozen waffles into the toaster. It isn’t ideal, but Peter took more time than usual getting ready, trying to wrap his mind around everything. 

Flash will have left for the office by now, and Ned has his laptop open on the dinner table. He won’t be taking the train to work for another hour. He wakes up early to text Betty good morning, romantic and gross, and one of Peter’s favorite things about him. 

Peter folds his waffles into a napkin, taking them to-go, and says, “See you later.”

“Be home tonight. We’re having a roommate meeting.”

Peter frowns. “I’m always home.”

“Yeah, I know, but just in case, you know?”

“Okay, yeah. I’ll be here.” Peter waves, and Ned waves back, genuine enthusiasm. 

He texts Liz. 

About MJ and Harry.

She responds with one word: _Interesting_.

Peter tells her that it’s not. 

_Then why did u text me?_

Frustration causes him to crack his neck as he responds, _bc i tell u everything_.

All he gets in response is 👀.

_Ned’s my new best friend_. 

Peter gets home before Flash and Ned. MJ’s already left for her shift at the bar, so Peter reviews his lesson plans for tomorrow, grades some of his chemistry students’ labs, and makes stir-fry for dinner. 

Flash returns next, asking if Ned’s home yet as he shoves his leftover takeout into the refrigerator. 

“Not yet. He’s eating at Betty’s.”

“Cool. Call me when he’s ready for the lame meeting.”

It’s over an hour before Ned arrives. 

“Hey, Peter.”

“Hey,” Peter replies, lifting his hand without looking away from the news report on some retail workers going on strike. Good for them. 

“Ready for the roommate meeting?” Ned asks.

“MJ’s not going to be home until 11.”

“MJ’s not invited.”

Peter blinks, twisting his head to look at Ned. “What?”

“Come on, Flash!” Ned bangs on Flash’s door, loud and insistent. “Time to tell Peter why we’re all about to go through the seven circles of Hell.”

He hears some grumbling before Flash opens his door. “...doesn’t even make sense why he took her back. He’s like, way out of her league.”

“Jar,” Ned says, shaking his head.

“Nah. She’s the one backsliding. Even Penis has the good sense not to do that.”

Flash flops down on the opposite end of the sofa, and Ned stands before them, hands steepled. 

“Okay,” Ned sighs. “Flash and I have seen this song and dance before, and I’m sorry you have to witness it now, Pete.”

“I mean,” Peter starts. “MJ really loved him, right? Maybe this is a good thing. She seemed fine this morning.”

“So you’re _stupid_ stupid,” Flash says.

Peter glares at him. “No. I just want her to be happy.”

“I do, too.” Ned says, holding his palms up and out like he’s playing mediator. Probably because he is. “You know I love her, but this isn’t a good thing. Harry’s like, so ...”

“Awesome,” Flash provides.

Ned shakes his head. “No.”

“He is. It’s not his fault MJ became a disgusting mess when he dumped her.”

“Maybe they won’t break up this time?” Peter tries to smile, but he knows it’s wonky, doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Especially because Ned makes a face, all sad and understanding, as he nods. 

“They will,” Flash says. “He’s way too cool for her. He’ll get bored again. And she’ll get tired of pretending she trusts him. Blah, blah, blah. Can I go back to my room now?”

“No, because we have to figure out how to stop this before it goes any further,” Ned says.

“I think we should let MJ live her own life,” Peter offers. 

“We shouldn’t do that,” Flash responds, unnecessarily rude. “But she won’t listen, anyway.” A beat. “We could show her the video.”

Peter asks, “What video?”

Ned says, “No.”

“Why not?” Flash groans, hitting his head against the back of the couch and slouching. “If she’ll listen to anybody, it’ll be herself.”

“We can’t take out the big guns now.”

“I’m lost,” Peter says, looking back and forth between his roommates. 

Ned sighs. “It’s possible she’ll come to her senses before that’s necessary.”

“Can I go?” Flash asks.

“Sure,” Ned gives, waving him away, and as Flash retreats, Ned sits next to Peter, sighing, soft and low and worn out.

Peter thinks about the wedding, about Harry saying he thought MJ didn’t have feelings and the way it cut through her like a knife, edge serrated but sharp. He thinks about her this morning, old T-shirt and pajama shorts, comfortable with Harry’s proximity and not outwardly happier than usual. Just herself. The same way she is every morning.

Maybe he’d be more concerned if she was suddenly acting differently, but she isn’t.

“She seems okay,” Peter tries. 

“I know,” Ned agrees.

He says it like it’s a bad thing.

“She’s a really strong person,” Peter says. “MJ versus gorilla, right?”

Ned’s mouth curves into a weary smile. “Right.”

“Go!” Flash yells, pushing on Peter’s shoulders.

He hops from one chair to the next, and Flash squeezes next to him, holding onto Peter for balance. He spills some of his beer onto Peter’s sock, but Peter’s too tipsy to care. 

“In the time of darkest defeat,” MJ starts.

“Oh!” Betty shouts, bouncing on her heels and almost sliding off the couch cushion she stands on. “Victory may be nearest!”

MJ tilts her head and raises her beer in salute.

Betty grins wide before taking a small sip from her own can. 

“You’re killing it, babe!” Ned calls from across the room, holding up his hand for an air high-five that Betty returns, wobbling and reaching out toward the coffee table to catch herself before she slips completely. 

“JFK!” Harry calls.

He keeps doing that. 

It’s annoying.

“FDR!” The group answers, but the joy behind the shout seems to deflate every time, and Peter downs the rest of his beer even though he considers taking a sip and leaving it at that. 

“Upside down and cheese?” Ned asks. 

Both things children like? That’s true, but Peter knows it’s not the right answer. 

Harry leans over, crooking his finger toward Michelle so she’ll scoot from the center of the kitchen island enough that he can whisper an idea to her. Peter can hear the low murmur and see Harry’s hand brush against her cheek. Her face scrunches and she shakes her head. 

“Cakes?” Liz asks. 

“Damn, girl,” Ned says. “Yeah.”

Liz wiggles in celebration, taking a long gulp of her drink as she steps gracefully from the square of blanket she’s on to a chair in the fourth quadrant, hand held out delicately. Turns out her success during her first game of True American wasn’t beginner’s luck. She’s smart enough to figure out most questions, knows most quotes, and balanced enough to not fall into the lava. 

“One, two, three!” Flash shouts.

“Four, five, six!” comes the reply, and Peter throws two fingers against his forehead before looking around the room. Breathing too hotly next to him, Flash has one finger raised. Liz and Betty each have four, Ned five, and Harry and MJ have three. 

Everyone with a match drinks, and Peter is still stuck on the chair with Flash. 

“Otis Redding and John Denver?” MJ asks. 

“Singers?” Betty tries. 

“No.” MJ tilts her head back, downing the rest of her beer, crumpling the aluminum in her hand and tossing it towards the trash bin. She misses and groans. Stuck where she is. 

“Died in plane crashes?” Peter tries. 

Her eyebrows shift up and her mouth twitches into an almost impressed crescent of a smile. “Yeah, loser. Take a drink and save yourself from Flash’s groping.”

“Hey! I don’t grope,” Flash protests. “Consent is sexy.”

“Consent is necessary,” Michelle says, flipping him off. 

Peter eyes the blanket previously occupied by liz, too far away. He figures looping back to the coffee table and hoping Betty’s couch cushion holds firm, might be his best bet. 

“Parker knew that?” Harry asks, voice scratchy from all the over-the-top yelling. “Guess maybe you do watch that documentary with all your boyfriends.”

Peter tilts his head, turning to look between them, tugging on Flash’s shirt to hold steady. 

“Ew,” Flash says, palm splaying across Peter’s face and pushing him away. 

Peter is falling off the chair, bringing Flash with him, so he can’t see MJ’s face, but her bored tone rings clear as a bell. “I didn’t watch it with him. I was trying to help you.”

“That’s … nice of you,” Harry says, skeptical. 

“Shut up, Harry.”

Betty asks, “Hey, are Peter and Flash dead?”

They are.

Harry whoops and hollers. 

Flash shoves at Peter. “This is all your fault.”

Peter disagrees.

The next morning, Peter takes an aspirin, nursing his hangover with a giant bowl of Cap’n Crunch. He reads Michelle’s latest article about memory, the actual thing and the version of it captured on someone’s phone in pictures and videos, how those two can be different, and also the same, the angle and framing reconfiguring reality. It’s not preachy, and she never tells anyone to put their phone away. It’s just good. 

Honestly, Peter thinks everything MJ does is good.

Peter’s starting to realize that when it comes to her, objectivity might not be his strong suit. Peter has always lived his life by letting his heart lead, so it doesn’t shock him into anything. 

It’s just true.

Like Michelle being good at everything.

Liz is the same way. 

Not a big deal.

He watches Ned make Betty eggs, listens to their conversation about the news and the comics Ned wants Betty to read. All good choices, if you ask Peter.

(They don’t ask Peter.)

Ned kisses her goodbye, a soft peck, and then a second kiss makes Peter look down at his slightly discolored cereal milk, knowing his ears must be tinted pink.

“She won’t read them,” Ned informs Peter, sliding onto the stool next to him. 

“No?”

“No. She doesn’t like pictures in her books unless they’re instructional diagrams.”

“She said she’d give them a try.”

“She won’t.” Ned shakes his head, smiling smitten. “But it’s cute that she lies about it, right?”

“Yeah?”

“So cute,” Ned sighs, resting his cheek in his palm.

Peter fishes the last, mushy pieces of cereal out of his bowl, slurps some of the milk off his spoon, and leans over to watch Ned and Betty send equally mushy texts to each other.

Flash emerges when the fancy, overpriced avocado toast he ordered is delivered, along with an iced latte that he slurps like he’s trying to make Peter feel nauseous. 

“Hey losers,” MJ says. Harry trails behind her, patting his head like he’s trying to fix his hair. He has nice hair, really, even if he’s pale and wispy, eyes dark and wide in a way that could make him a villain in a psychological thriller. Actually, that might be the attraction for MJ. 

Huh. 

Peter will have to ask her. Or maybe Ned, if he can’t work up the nerve. 

Ned and Flash ignore her greeting even though Peter is fairly certain it’s meant for all three of them. Peter says, “Good morning,” because May raised him right.

“Want to go over the lease at three?” Harry asks.

“Sure,” MJ says, nonchalant. “I’ll see you at three.”

He leans down to kiss her, and Peter doesn’t wait for it to get gross before grabbing his bowl and drinking the last of his milk. 

When the door closes behind Harry, Ned asks, “You’re helping him go over his new lease? Doesn’t he have like, a million different lawyers to do that for him?”

“Uh.” MJ shifts. “It’s my lease. His lawyers are writing it for me.”

“Our lease isn’t up until August.”

“Harry asked me to move in with him, so… I’m going to, uh, do that.” She tilts her head and smiles a tiny, taciturn thing. 

Peter, Ned and Flash exchange a look. 

Flash says, “What?”

Peter says, “Are you sure?”

Ned says, “We have to show you something.”

It’s all simultaneous, the words overlapping. 

MJ crosses her arms. “I don’t need to see anything. Harry asked me, and I said yes, and it’s going to be fine.”

“Just,” Ned starts, hopping off his stool and holding his hands up. “Wait. One second.”

He sprints to his room, limbs flailing, and MJ rolls her eyes, annoyed.

“It’s a little fast, don’t you think? You’ve only been back together for two weeks,” Peter says.

“Harry doesn’t want to start over. He wants to start where we left off.”

Where they left off. 

Where they left off wasn’t moving in together. It was breaking up, and it was MJ allegedly being a wreck in whatever way she is capable of it. It was Peter pretending to be her boyfriend, Harry saying he thought she didn’t have feelings in a way that looked like pressing on a bruise he knew was there, a wound still deep and dark enough to hurt. 

Peter doesn’t correct her. He just nods.

“I found it!” Ned screams, running back from his bedroom, homemade DVD in hand. 

“Can’t wait to see this,” Flash says.

“If I sit through this, will you leave me alone?” MJ asks.

Ned nods like a bobblehead, and Michelle exhales an audible, frustrated sound as she makes her way to the sofa.

“When you move out, I get to be in charge of the lease,” Flash says. 

Peter and Ned catch each other’s eye: _absolutely not_. But there are more pressing issues at hand, even if Peter isn’t quite sure what they’re about to watch. Ned sits next to MJ and tries to grab her fingers, but she yanks her palm away. Flash sits on her other side and crunches on avocado toast, lifting his feet onto the coffee table and crossing his ankles. MJ shoves his legs down.

Ned presses play. 

Peter stands behind the couch as Michelle pops up on the television. Her hair frizzy, dark circles underneath her eyes, and a large T-shirt with a stretched out neck dwarfing her thin fame. “This is stupid,” she says onscreen.

“Just in case,” Ned’s voice encourages from behind the camera. 

Onscreen MJ groans. “This is pointless. We’re never getting back together.”

“I knew you liked Taylor Swift,” Flash says in the video. “You’re such a nerd.”

Onscreen MJ glares. “I will bleach all of your designer shirts.”

“Take a joke, jeez.”

“Okay MJ, you can start now,” behind-the-camera Ned says. 

Peter can feel current MJ tense on the sofa as the old, recorded version of her runs a hand through her hair. “Harry Osborn is an asshole,” she says, flat and stilted as though she’s reading from a script. “He thinks he’s better than everybody because he was lucky enough to be born into a trust fund.”

The voice of video flash says, “Hey! Not all trust fund babies are bad.”

Oncreen MJ snorts. “You’re direct evidence that they are.”

“What about Harry?” Ned asks. “We can roast Flash after.”

“For what? Being cool?”

Video MJ rolls her eyes. “He’s condescending and purposely obtuse. I lost IQ points every time I tried to explain a point-of-view he didn’t agree with.”

“Good, good, go on,” Ned spurs. 

“He’s selfish, and what he wanted always took priority.” She changes focus, likely to look at Flash, says, “Privileged trust fund kid used to getting his way.”

“And why can’t you ever get back together?” behind-the-camera Ned asks. 

Onscreen MJ looks down at her hands. A curl falls across her face. She presses her mouth into a thin line, but Peter can see that she’s trying to keep her bottom lip from trembling, trying to hold it together and resist falling apart on camera. Maybe falling apart ever.

“He’s an asshole,” she whispers.

“It’s okay, Michelle,” Ned says, soft and soothing. 

“I really hate him.” She swallows. “He made me feel like I wasn’t…” Long pause.

Peter looks down at the Michelle sitting in front of him, tense, fingers going white in her lap. 

“He made me feel like I was hard to love. And he knew that I--” She cuts herself off, wiping at her eyes before looking up, not directly into the camera, presumably at Ned. “This is stupid.”

She gets up.

Leaves the frame. 

The camera wobbles before the video cuts to black.

“See?” Ned says. “You don’t want to go through that again, MJ.”

“I’m not going to.” She stands, rolling her shoulders back, lifting onto her tiptoes and stretching her legs out. 

“So, you’re staying?” Ned asks. 

“No. He’s different now. We’re different. You can support me or not. It doesn’t really matter, but I thought we were best friends, so. Whatever.” 

She shakes her head, retreating down the hallway. 

Ned sighs, Flash starts talking about finding a new roommate, and Peter follows her. 

“MJ?” he asks. 

She turns right outside the bathroom door, snapping, “What?”

“You don’t have to move in with Harry,” he says.

“You’re doing this now, too?” 

“If you really want this, yeah, I’ll support you. But you don’t have to move in with him right now. Just because he wants to start where you left off doesn’t mean you have to. You can take it slow. You can move in with him later. In August, or next year, or--” Peter exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”

“I’m so tired, Peter.”

“Oh.” He clears his throat. “You can go back to bed. We can talk later. I’m always--”

“Not that kind of tired,” she says, small and quiet, like the woman in the video. She shakes her head, laugh shaky and wet and humorless. It makes Peter want to hug her. “I’m tired of being alone.”

“You’re not,” Peter rushes. “Flash is annoying, but he pays more than his share of the rent and utilities. Ned would do anything for you.” 

She raises an eyebrow, but Peter knows Ned showed her the video to help, not hurt. MJ knows that, too, even if she’s too upset right now to admit it.

“You have me,” Peter says. 

Her face crumples for a millisecond.

She blinks, but her eyes are still wide and weary, leaning against the doorjamb like maybe this conversation is exhausting her body the same way being with Harry exhausted her heart. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

Peter opens his mouth, but he can’t think of anything else to say. 

“I thought I had cancer, Peter.”

“But you didn’t,” he tries feebly.

“Harry knows me. We were together for two years, and he still wants to be with me, so.” She shrugs. “I’m done looking for something that doesn’t exist. The timing was bad before, but it makes sense now.”

“It’s not about timing, MJ. And it exists. Whatever you’re looking for? I know it does. You deserve something amazing. You deserve someone who makes you feel amazing. Not like,” he pauses, gesturing behind him. “Not like you did in that video.”

She swallows. “Thank you. That’s sweet, but I disagree. It doesn’t change anything, and neither does the video.”

“MJ,” he whispers.

Peter wishes he was better with words. He wishes he was as articulate and thoughtful as she was in the article he read not even an hour ago. But his head is blank, and her eyes swim with unshed tears. He wants to wipe them away with his thumbs. They haven’t fallen yet, so there’s nothing to wipe away. He feels useless.

“Can I pee?” she asks, voice low and hoarse. 

Peter nods. 

She closes the door, and he tries very hard not to hear the gulp of breath that sounds like the beginning of a sob.

Ned reminds MJ for the hundredth time this morning that she doesn’t have to move out. 

“I signed a lease,” she counters. 

“He owns that apartment, MJ,” Flash says, brushing some hair away from his forehead. He helped carry her pillows down to the moving truck and nothing else. “He doesn’t think this is going to work out. And who can blame him?”

She glares. “Jar.”

“You don’t live here anymore.” 

“Come on, man, jar,” Ned says. 

“Thank you.” Michelle nods, swinging her backpack over her shoulder. “I think that’s everything.”

“We have to move the truck before we get a ticket,” Peter says, adjusting his grip on the last box. 

“Are you sure?” Ned asks MJ. Updated count: 101. 

“Let’s go,” she says. “I’m not paying a fine for loitering.”

They pile into the moving truck, four adults where there’s only room for three. MJ suggests Flash get in the back with her books and coffee table. He whines, pushing closer to Ned and squishing them all together. 

Ned fiddles with the radio constantly, shifting wildly between sports commentary, R&B, country, and what Peter has a sneaking suspicion is actually christian pop. All the He’s sounding particularly capitalized, the music weirdly hymnal in its smooth, upbeat glory. 

Peter feels Michelle’s elbow when she turns the wheel, a light, poky brush against him, and he watches the congested traffic she navigates with an ease he can tell is bravato and nothing else. 

She’s a city girl, first Chicago and then New York, and driving doesn’t seem to be something she ever settled into.

She turns on the blinker half a block before the street her new apartment is on. 

She flicks her turn signal off again, shoulders hitching, keeping the car headed straight. 

“Wasn’t that the turn?” Flash asks.

“Yep,” she says.

“You missed it.”

“Yep.”

“What are you--”

“We can loop around,” MJ snaps.

“Fine,” Flash grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Ned adjusts the dial to some classic rock station playing Journey. 

They drive five more minutes before Ned asks, “Are you going to turn around? I mean, you don’t have to move in with Harry. We could just go home and--”

“I’m moving in with Harry,” she grits out, hands too tight on the steering wheel, stuck at ten and two like she’s afraid the car will crash if she moves them an inch. 

“Right, of course, sorry.”

MJ drives, and Ned reaches for the dial one more time before dropping his hand back into his lap without changing the station. Flash wonders out loud if MJ is kidnapping them. She twists her hands on the wheel but doesn’t say anything. 

“Not helping,” Peter says. 

She drives and drives and drives, and then she pulls over somewhere almost upstate with a lot of trees. They haven’t seen another car in the last 20 minutes, and MJ hits the brakes too hard, causing the truck to lurch forward. 

“What was that?” Flash yells, pushing the door open and stumbling out. 

Michelle clears her throat. “I don’t know. I kind of freaked out.”

“_Kind of_?” Flash screams. “I’ve had to piss for an hour!”

He takes off into the woods to relieve himself, and MJ turns off the ignition before climbing out the driver’s side. 

“Okay,” Ned says, trying for calm but spectacularly missing the mark, his voice tight and shrill. “We can just go back the way we came. Maybe stop for dinner. I’m going to go,” he pauses, pointing at the trees behind him. “Like Flash. Um. Please don’t leave without me.”

MJ twirls the key ring around her finger while she stares at the winding road. 

“Didn’t know you were a nature girl,” Peter tries. When she turns and squints at him, he corrects, “Person who likes the outdoors?”

“I’m not. Not more than your average person.”

“Okay.” Peter scratches at the nape of his neck. 

“I’m going to walk it off,” MJ says. “Stretch.”

“Okay. Sounds good.”

She clears her throat. “You can come with. If you want.”

“Oh. Sure.”

Peter texts Ned and Flash so they don’t think he and Michelle were actually kidnapped or murdered. It must have rained recently, patches of damp ground underfoot, squelching beneath their shoes every few steps. The grass is green, the sky is blue, and the sun feels like it’s casting its light from directly above them, illuminating everything but their own shadows, long and stretched out.

Peter lets the faint rustling of leaves in the wind surround them. He concentrates on being quiet and allowing Michelle silence away from Flash’s dramatics and Ned’s steady stream of advice that goes against everything she’s said she wants.

It could almost be peaceful. 

He watches her T-shirt shift over her shoulder blades, the smudges of dirt on her shoes, and the zigzag line she walks, glancing down and dodging particularly deep puddles where the ground has not yet absorbed the water. 

“Am I doing the right thing?” she asks. 

Peter stumbles over a root. “MJ?”

She stops, using her hand as a visor and staring forward. “You all think I’m being stupid.”

“No, not at all,” Peter says.

She turns to look at him. “You do.”

“I don’t. I think it’s really brave of you to try again.” He smiles at her, and he knows it’s sadder than it should be. “Second chances are my first favorite kind of chances.”

“What about fourth chances?”

“If any of us thought you were stupid, you’d murder us.”

“That’s true,” she agrees. “But what are you guys going to do without me? Ned freaks out if he sees a bug. You still can’t figure out your closet--”

“I gave up on that,” Peter says.

“Flash is Flash.”

Peter agrees. Flash _is_ Flash. No other way to explain it. “MJ, we’re gonna be okay. I promise.”

“How do you know?”

“Because …” Peter trails off. He shakes his head, takes a risk, grabs her hand. “Because you’re you. I know we’re gonna be okay because of you. _I’m_ gonna be okay because of you.”

It’s true, he realizes, too late, words coming out faster than his mind can process them. 

He knows more about history and politics than he did nine months ago. She’s helped edit quiz questions for clarity, her kindness always blunted by a jab at his inability to string words together that makes him laugh instead of feel bad. He and MJ marathon episodes of _Criminal Minds_ when she has a rare Saturday off, eating popcorn and drinking tea. Half the time she predicts the end of the episode in the first ten minutes. 

Peter suspects it’s because she’s seen them all before. Regardless, he enjoys her commentary about the various accuracies and inaccuracies. He teases her when she’s wrong and likes the way she’ll reach behind her back, grabbing a pillow and whacking him. He nudges her when she’s right, and she ignores it, because she never doubts that she is. 

He can’t qualify or quantify how, but MJ has made him a better person. 

He knew that. 

Knew she made his life better and happier by being in it, but hadn’t realized just how profoundly different he feels somewhere inside, call it his heart or soul or something equally as awful and cheesy. 

He squeezes her hand. 

“And you’re gonna be okay, too,” Peter says. “Because you’re you.”

“I’m always okay.” MJ’s smile doesn’t reach her glassy eyes.

“No,” he counters. “And you don’t have to be.”

“I am,” she says, firmer this time. Her hand pulses in his once, reassuring, before she twists it away, wiping at her eyes. “We should get back before a bear eats Flash.”

“Good idea.”

“God,” she breathes, rubbing at her eyes as she turns around. “You’re such a sap, Parker.”

“Come on, you like it.”

“No. Gross.” She kicks at a rock and starts the trek back toward the moving truck. 

They drop MJ off at dusk, helping unload the truck as the sky cascades to black before heading back to the loft and over-ordering pizza. Ned and Peter force Flash to watch _The Force Awakens_, and they agree he only pretends not to like it. 

Peter knocks out immediately after, emotionally and physically drained. He’s too tired to miss Michelle, having spent almost all day crammed into the truck with her.

He wakes up well-rested but sore.

Peter’s day is normal: he grabs coffee and a bowl of cereal, showers because he forgot the night before, has his AP kids work on practice exam questions and attempts to keep the students focused despite the sun shining through the windows, causing too many necks to crane longingly.

The science department has a meeting after school before they grab dinner together. Workplace bonding and all that. Peter likes his colleagues, and he likes learning that Vinny never did his homework in earth systems or biology, either. 

When he arrives home, Ned’s out with Betty, having sent a text saying he’s staying at her place tonight, so not to wait up. Peter never waits up, but it’s nice to be thought of, so he sends a thumbs up emoji back.

Flash leaves soon after, saying, “I spent all Sunday with you losers. I need to reapply the cologne of cool with my actual friends.”

Peter calls May. She tells him about spilling pasta sauce on her blouse at dinner and wanting to take an autumn trip with Happy to Vermont. Maple syrup and apple picking and wandering through patches of trees, leaves vibrant burnt reds and oranges. She asks about his weekend and moving Michelle out. 

They haven’t started looking for someone to take her room yet, keep saying they need to do that in the same way you run into someone you used to know, vowing to get coffee and never following up. 

He walks around the neighborhood to expel whatever restless energy is left in his veins, tweaks his lesson plans, and gets ready for bed. 

With a normal, mundane day behind him, Peter lays on his mattress, hands folded on his stomach, staring at the ceiling.

It isn’t the first day he’s gone without seeing MJ, without a text or conversation, but the apartment feels emptier without her. Peter’s the only one home, sure, but the quiet has a different sound, the silence more poignant, a vague, nostalgic sadness brushing against his skin like a soft paintbrush against canvas. 

He picks up his phone, squints at the light and thinks about texting her. 

_hey_ or _how’s the new place?_ Or _i miss u? isn’t that stupid?_

He doesn’t send anything, locking his phone and double-checking that it’s charging before setting it back on his nightstand. 

He closes his eyes and breathes, deep, steady, meditation breaths like the ones he and May learned after Ben’s death: in and out, in and out.

Peter’s half-dreaming, hears the creak of his door. 

“Hey?” A whisper.

Charades: Sounds like: Michelle. 

“Peter?” she asks.

He blinks, turns toward the door too slowly, her face in shadow, backlit by a thin stream of light from the hallway, haloed. “MJ?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Sorry I woke you.”

“You didn’t.” He gets up too quickly, too excited, flipping the light-switch. His eyes adjust as he looks at her: lovely and ethereal and _here_. “What’s up?”

“I was going to watch some _Criminal Minds_ before bed.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll put on tea.”

She smiles gratefully. If MJ’s at all embarrassed, it’s concealed well, expression impenetrable. “Cool.”

Peter should be asleep, but he sips on chamomile tea in the living room with MJ, watching the BAU team lock down a mall to find a missing child. 

Her room is still bare. She has a suitcase, pillows and blankets, but she’ll need helping moving back in. Peter has some time Thursday evening, but MJ’s working at the bar. Saturday is the next best thing, but MJ says she’ll probably make a few small trips before then. 

She doesn’t say what happened, and Peter doesn’t ask.

She seems good, happier and lighter than yesterday. The same self-assured confidence that usually radiates from her has returned, shifting into the previously empty feeling, filling up the apartment.

The episode ends, and Peter feels awful, nauseous and uneasy. The episodes with kids are always the hardest for him to sit through, and MJ knows that, didn’t bother guessing or gloating.

The next episode starts, autoplay, and when Peter yawns before the opening credits begin, MJ pauses it. “Go to sleep, nerd.”

“I probably should. You don’t have to wait for me to watch the next one.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Right,” Peter laughs, quiet, shaking his head as he stands. “Enjoy the psychopaths.”

“I will.” 

She presses play again.

Peter’s stuck half in the dark hallway, half in the light. 

“Hey, Peter?” she calls, soft and low, almost like she doesn’t want him to hear.

He turns. “Yeah?”

Michelle’s feet are tucked to the side, mug of tea held precious in her hands. She’s beautiful. She smiles a tight, genuine thing that makes Peter’s stomach flip flop. It’s the kind of rare smile that feels intimate and inimitable.

“It’s nice to be home,” she says.

The words push against Peter’s ribs, warm and solid like the press of a hug. Michelle’s friendship has felt hard-won, a careful, unsteady path that reveals itself only when MJ places the next stepping stone into the dirt, allowing him to come a little bit closer. To see the dirt underneath her fingers and the sun in her eyes. 

Peter smiles back. “We missed you.”

MJ rolls her eyes, and Peter knows, without a doubt, that it’s equal parts deflection, fondness, and fair judgment. 

She wasn’t even gone 48 hours. 

What was there to miss?

But Peter’s always been honest.

He didn’t have time to miss her, but he did.

She quietly ingratiated herself into his life, and Peter doesn’t know what he’d do if he ever messed that up, if he ever lost her.

*

Peter meets Johnny the way everyone meets someone: at a bar.

Okay, Johnny also mistakes him for a guy named Frankie from an anonymous hookup app. Peter pretends to be Frankie until the guilt chews up his insides and he vomits out an apology and explanation. 

Okay.

That’s also not quite true. 

They’ve just ordered another round of drinks, knees pressed together. Johnny’s hand flirts restlessly on his own thigh, and Peter keeps glancing at his fingers, wondering if they’ll skate across the breath of space between them and swirl patterns into his thigh through the denim of his jeans. 

“How’s Barty?” Johnny asks.

“Uh, good?” Peter tries to keep his brow from knitting together in confusion.

“I’d really love to meet the little guy.”

Panic and regret wells up in Peter’s stomach, like rising water preparing to break a dam. He catches MJ’s eye across the bar. She raises her eyebrows at him, delighted smirk on her mouth, towel twisting inside a glass as she dries it by hand. 

“Well, um, he’s not-- right now--”

“We could go back to your place?”

“Um, well, the babysitter is, um.” Peter exhales, running a hand through his hair. 

“Babysitter?” Johnny asks, eyes narrowing. 

“I need to tell you--”

His confession of being a horrible, awful, terrible liar curls around Peter’s tongue, interrupted by the vibration of Johnny’s phone. “Hold that thought.”

Peter shifts his glass, condensation forming a ring on the napkin underneath it. “I’m really sorry, but I--”

“Stood me up.”

“What?” Peter asks.

“I just got a message from you.”

“Oh. About that.” He wilts.

“I take it you’re not Frankie, then?” Johnny asks, chin tilting down. 

“I’m not.” Peter frowns. “I don’t know what came over me. You’re really hot, and you seemed so sure about knowing me so I just kind of, uh, let you think I was Frankie?”

Johnny chuckles low, and it’s a nice sound, some edge of disbelief to his amusement. “You know Barty’s a dog, right?”

Peter blanches. “Oh.”

“Mine or yours?” Johnny asks, and Peter feels the faintest skim of fingers against the outside of his thigh.

“Huh?”

“Mine?” 

“I’m confused.”

“I’m not looking for anything serious. I thought that was clear from the fact that I haven’t seen Frankie’s face,” he explains.

Peter flushes at the implication, so far from his comfort zone, and so far from anything he’d ever think of doing. 

He excuses himself, promises he’ll be right back, and swings around the bar to get advice from the third best advice-giver he knows. If Peter attempted to ask May, he’d die of embarrassment before he finishes explaining, and Liz is out of the country doing some editorial spread, so. 

MJ’s gaze flits from Johnny, back to Peter. “He’s cute. You should do it.”

Peter balks, a strangled noise curdling out of his throat. 

“Or don’t.”

“I’ve never had sex with someone who doesn’t even know my real name.”

“Then tell him your real name,” she says.

Peter nods, swallows. Johnny’s jawline is sharp, his eyes dark, his smile perfectly teetering between predatory and playful. 

“If you’re uncomfortable, don’t go back to his place. But nobody’s gonna judge you for hooking up with someone you just met, Peter,” Michelle says 

“Right. Thanks.” Peter takes a deep breath and smiles at MJ. “Can I get the bill?”

She rolls her eyes. “I got you.”

Johnny doesn’t want anything serious or exclusive, having ended a relatively committed relationship six months ago. Peter can relate well enough, and he doesn’t let it snowball into a deeper, more meaningful connection. Doesn’t ask what _relatively committed_ means.

Johnny says, “Just sex.”

“Just sex,” Peter agrees.

The sex is good. Like, mind-blowingly good.

Johnny has great hands, a great mouth, and honestly, a great dick. Peter’s never really met a dick he didn’t like, so that might not be a good metric, but still, he’s pretty sure anyone would agree. 

Except it’s their fourth not-date, Johnny in Peter’s bed, great hands pressing against Peter’s chest, thumb rubbing over his nipple before pinching, a nice, gentle pulse of pressure. Johnny’s thigh is comfortable and warm between Peter’s legs, and his mouth is hot, painting open-mouthed kisses onto Peter’s neck.

Peter feels Johnny’s dick starting to press against his hip.

He closes his eyes, counts his breaths, and spreads his hands against Johnny’s back, finding his shoulder blades and trying to feel the ripple of muscle. 

Peter was looking forward to this all day. Knowing Johnny was going to come over at ten was the stress relief he knew he’d need after a truly horrific back-to-school meeting. 

Except it’s not working.

It feels good, but Peter doesn’t feel like having sex. 

Which is ridiculous. He was looking forward to this all day!

“Hey,” he says, voice a little hoarse. 

“Hey.” Johnny looks at him, eyes dilated, lips red and wanting. God, he’s attractive, and god, does Peter want to have sex with him. But he also … doesn’t.

His inability to pinpoint the problem frustrates him, making it worse.

“I don’t think it’s gonna happen tonight,” Peter confesses.

“Oh.” Johnny blinks. He licks at his bottom lip. “That’s cool.” He shifts off Peter, smoothing out his hair and reaching for the shirt he carelessly tossed away not even 30 minutes ago. “I get it, dude.”

Peter was pretty certain _dude_ wasn’t a sexy word before, and he’s even more sure of it now. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize.” Johnny pulls the T-shirt over his head. “I’ll just head out.”

“I’ll text you later?” Peter asks, sitting up and scanning the floor for his button-down before remembering it’s almost 11 and he doesn’t need to change back into anything remotely business casual.

“I’m always up for a good time.” Johnny winks. “I’ll see myself out.”

Peter bites down around the stupid, inane phrase about hating to see someone go but loving to watch them leave. 

It reminds him of Flash.

So.

Any hope of tonight being hot and heavy is officially six feet under. 

He changes into pajama pants and a ratty band T-shirt before leaving his bedroom to find Betty curled into Ned’s side on the sofa, Flash on the other end, watching old _Friends_ reruns.

“That was fast,” Flash says. 

Peter makes a noise of affirmation, rummaging through a cabinet to find the Oreos. 

“He didn’t seem satisfied,” Flash notes. “Did little Penis Parker blow his load too soon?”

“Jar,” Ned mumbles.

“Put in a five,” Betty says. 

“It was an honest question,” Flash protests.

Peter sits in the armchair, peeling back the plastic tab on the container. He twists an Oreo, separating one cookie from the filling, and discovers it’s gone stale when he pops the entire disc into his mouth. 

“I was looking forward to seeing Johnny all day,” Peter offers during a commercial break. “But then I just wasn’t feeling it.”

“Performance issues already?” Flash asks. 

“It happens,” Betty says. “Lots of reasons.”

“Ned?” Flash pries, too delighted.

Ned huffs. “Please. She did a research paper about it in undergrad.”

“There’s a hypothesis that one of multiple reasons a man is unable to become erect is that he’s so attracted to his partner that he’s scared of not being able to perform up to their standards,” Betty says, sitting up. “It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“I’m sure that’s what their partners tell themselves,” Flash counters.

Betty scoffs.

“Attraction is not the problem,” Peter says. “I’ve never had … a relationship like this before. And it’s like my brain didn’t recognize it was time without some emotional connection beforehand.”

“Like talking about your day?” Ned asks.

“Yeah.”

“You need an emotional fluffer,” Flash says. 

Peter squints. “A what?”

“In porn, the fluffer is the person who helps the talent stay aroused.”

“Oh.” Peter clears his throat. “Yeah, I guess.”

“When’s your next date with Johnny?” Ned asks.

“Not a date.”

Ned suggests, “Appointment?”

Peter cringes. “No.”

Flash suggests, “Booty call?”

Peter cringes again, but that’s definitely the correct colloquialism. “Probably Sunday.”

“What if we all got dinner before or something?” Ned asks. 

Peter bites another Oreo in half, letting the idea roll around his head. “Like when we all go to a bar to hang out and maybe find someone to take home, except I already know who I’m going to be hooking up with?”

“Exactly!” Ned nods. “I’m a genius.”

“That sounds good, actually,” Peter says, a little bit surprised.

It makes sense: he didn’t have a problem the first night he and Johnny slept together, leaving the bar and flirting the entire Uber back. He and Liz went to dinner and an Off-Broadway play before she dropped him off at Johnny’s place for round two. Johnny spontaneously texted him during the middle of a movie marathon with MJ before their third … booty call. Peter’s going to get used to that turn of phrase. 

“You paying, Parker?” Flash asks.

“Um, no.”

“I’ll consider it.”

Betty already has plans, but Peter has Ned, which is more than good enough for him.

Another commercial break comes and goes before the telltale rattle of their finicky front door. “‘Sup, nerds?” MJ asks. “Hey, Betty.”

“Hi, MJ.” She smiles soft, head pillowed on Ned’s shoulder again. 

“How was work?” Peter asks, twisting in his chair to get a good look at her.

She shrugs, reaching over him to nab an Oreo. “Tips were shitty, but it was my turn to do the order.”

She likes doing the order. She likes the numbers, and she likes a break from her daily routine. 

“Ned and I are getting dinner before I see Johnny on Sunday. Do you want to come?”

She hums. “Sure.”

“The Oreos are stale,” Peter warns her.

She twists hers apart anyway, licking at the creme. 

“He needs emotional support so he can get it up,” Flash says, half-mean and half-true.

MJ’s brow wrinkles, and she sticks the two chocolate cookies together. “Like a fluffer?”

“Did everybody know about that?” Peter asks. 

“I live with Flash.”

“Ah.” Peter nods. Makes sense. 

_Ned’s not coming. He’s getting dinner with Betty and her friends_.

Peter reads MJ’s text, replies, _U still up for it?_

They have a reservation at a nice tapas place because Ned insisted they really go all out, especially because Flash bailed, as expected. “The three muskateers!” Ned had enthused, and Peter finds Ned’s excitement contagious, and MJ likes tapas, and there was no reason to protest.

Peter’s already gotten ready, wearing a nice dress shirt and suit pants, and transferred to the bus that’ll drop him off a block away from the restaurant. 

She sends: _Yeah._

_See you soon!_

Peter arrives, letting the hostess know they only need a table for two. He’s seated before MJ shows up, curls brushing against her shoulders as she’s led to the table. She changed at the bar, coming to dinner directly from an early shift. Her red dress is lovely, hugging her body and swishing a little against her knees.

She’s beautiful.

Peter says, “You look great,” instead.

“Thanks.” She shrugs, nodding at the waiter pulling out her chair, pressed little smile as she sits. “But I still smell like beer.” 

“Beer doesn’t smell bad.”

MJ shakes her head, smile still small but a little more sincere. “Whatever, loser.”

Peter beams. 

They pore over the menu, arguing about whether they should go for champiñones rellenos or pimientos del piquillo, and whether the bacon wrapped dates the waiter recommended are worth ordering, or if everyone is too easy for any food wrapped in bacon. 

MJ lets Peter win, so they order the dates.

“How was work?” he asks.

“Slow.” She sighs, slouching in her chair. “Drunk Bob showed up. I know he’s the only way I get decent tips in the afternoon, but it’s not worth it.”

Peter frowns. “Sorry.” 

“I’m used to it,” she says, flippant.

“You shouldn’t have to be.”

Michelle nods once, reaching out to hold the stem of her water glass. She doesn’t take a drink. “That’s a good one. You use that on all the girls?”

“Just you,” Peter laughs.

“Cliche,” she snorts. “Try again.”

“How _you_ doin’?” Peter says, but his voice goes too high, laugh breaking through the words.

“You need to buy a girl a drink first, Peter.”

“Oh! That reminds me.” Peter unzips his bag, containing a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, travel toothbrush and toothpaste. He and Johnny don’t sleep at each other’s places because they’re just hooking up, but Peter wants to be prepared. Like a boy scout. Or something less goody two-shoes and conservative. They are fuck buddies, after all. That’s probably not very boy scout-ish.

He pulls out a thermos, constellations painting the outside. 

“Oh my god,” MJ mutters, ducking her head and biting her lip so her crooked tooth peeks out. 

It’s very cute. 

“You’re so lame,” she adds.

“The prices are already out of my budget, and the special sangria is even worse, so I brought our own.”

“You brought sangria?”

Peter says, “No. It’s just white wine.”

“Who brings white wine in a thermos?” MJ asks, fondness lacing the rhetorical question.

“I did,” Peter answers anyway.

“Dork,” she says softly, and Peter always likes MJ, but he really likes her right now, like this, more delight streaming through than she usually allows. 

He pours a cup for her into the lid. The thermos is meant to be used for camping, but Peter only ever camped in Ben and May’s living room when he was little, making a tent out of blankets and chairs. “Cheers.”

MJ makes it known that she thinks clinking her little cup against his thermos is stupid, but she still does it before asking whether Peter wants to see the new foreign language film playing at the small theater she prefers, insisting there’s more culture in the architecture and more butter in the popcorn than every other independent theater and chain combined. 

“What’s it about?” Peter asks.

“A young girl coming of age during World War I.”

“Sounds good.”

“That’s the description of every other movie, Peter,” she teases.

“Isn’t it usually a young boy coming of age?” he asks. 

“Yes.”

“If you want to see it, I’m sure it’s good.”

He means it. Michelle has discerning taste, and he enjoys most of her recommendations: the ridiculous, fun movies she likes to laugh at, the serious and sad affairs that make his heart ache, and the artsy films that confuse him, causing a headache. MJ always humors him when he asks for an explanation, stressing it’s just her interpretation, influenced by her own experiences.

Peter has a hunch that if he had an opinion of his own, she’d enjoy arguing with him the same way they do about whether Wes Anderson films are good or not (“His affinity for the twee makes his films mostly insufferable, the stylization distracting from the message,” MJ had said. 

“The stylization enhances the message.”

“How?”

“I can’t explain it. I just feel it,” Peter said. “Isn’t that why art is subjective?”

“Very convincing,” MJ answered flatly, but there had been a persistent twinkle behind her eye like maybe Peter was saying something not so stupid).

“Stop using lines on me,” she says.

“They’re not lines.” Peter’s brow creases. “It’s true.”

MJ takes another sip of wine from her little cup from a child’s camping thermos, and it really does look ridiculous. A faint flush colors her cheeks, and it makes Peter feel a bit ridiculous. 

He tells her about his class schedule for the new school year, how his lunch break falls too early to be useful, and she offers no sympathy. MJ drinks almost the entire thermos of wine by the time their food comes out, and she orders herself an expensive, fancy glass of sangria, too. 

Wine makes MJ giggly, eyes wide and bright, but it doesn’t make her less coherent. She’s funny, and Peter laughs when she mocks the husband sitting at the table behind them. He’s being an asshole, to his wife and to the waiter, and MJ has plenty of material in just a few minutes. 

Peter covers his mouth with his palm, shoulders shaking. 

MJ admits the bacon wrapped dates are good, and Peter grins. “I told you so,” he says.

“You didn’t tell me, Derrick,” the waiter, “told me.”

“But I convinced you,” Peter argues, leaning forward.

“I let you.” She waves him off, her eyes darting around his face. If she was anyone else, Peter would feel uncomfortable, pinned to a slide and splayed out underneath a microscope. “You didn’t convince me of anything.”

“Okay,” Peter says, smiling.

“You believe me.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. 

She bites a date in half, and Peter watches her jaw work as she chews, tongue darting out to lick at her bottom lip. “Good.”

“Do you want dessert?” Peter asks.

She shrugs. “Not enough to pay for it.”

“I’ll pay if you want to get something,” he says, because the delicia de chocolate has been sitting in the back of his mind since he read the description on the menu. 

His phone vibrates.

“If you want dessert, get it,” MJ says. 

“Nevermind.” Peter looks up from his phone. “Johnny got off work early.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Thank you for preparing me for a night of casual, meaningless sex.”

“Yeah, yeah,” MJ answers.

“Is it okay if I go?” Peter asks, because MJ doesn’t usually fill silence with repetition. She says what she wants and nothing more, nothing less. 

“That’s what this was for, right?” she asks, words steady but eyes unsure, flashing with an emotion Peter can’t place, can’t connect with MJ. He guesses it’s another thing that happens when she drinks too much wine, like the giggling.

“Yes.” Peter nods. “Thank you. Um, how much of the bill do you think--”

“Go, Peter. I’ll venmo you mid-coitus.”

He laughs like he always does with her, a rolling sound that bursts out of him like it just can’t be helped. “You’re the best, MJ.”

Her eyes swim, and he almost asks if she’s okay.

She says, “Go get laid, nerd.”

So he does.

Peter comes home from work to find MJ and Ned sitting at the dinner table, both on their laptops.

“Did it work?” Ned asks, no introduction.

Peter grins and feels his face warm. “Yeah. It was incredible.”

“Nice, dude!” Ned holds his hand out, and Peter presses his lips together, shuffling over despite his embarrassment to return the high-five. “Sorry I couldn’t make it to dinner.”

“It’s okay. MJ’s great company.”

“That she is,” Ned agrees.

Both of them look at her, listening to the faint click of her laptop keys, an uneven rhythm, until she glances up. “I know.” She clears her throat. “Congratulations, Peter. Glad I could help.”

“Johnny and I have tentative plans for Wednesday, if you want we could go see that movie of yours?”

She stares at him, face blank, and then: “I work Wednesday.”

“Right, I knew that.” Peter didn’t know that. He runs a hand through his hair. “I can find something else date-like to do, I guess.” 

He looks to Ned.

“I’ve got Dungeons & Dragons, Peter. We’re in the middle of a campaign, and Abe’s house is too small for extra bodies. What about Liz?”

“She’s visiting her parents this week.” They moved to Portland midway through college, and Liz visits them every few months. 

“You could ask Flash?”

A beat. 

Peter face must read horror, because Ned cringes. “Oh my god, sorry. I don’t know what that was,” he says.

Peter laughs. “I can ask, but he’ll just accuse me of hitting on him.”

“You’re trying to fake-date your friends for sex, right?” MJ asks, sharp. “It’s not really an off-base assumption.”

Peter feels his eyebrows furrow, his body turn rigid, his mouth go dry. He coughs. “No? That’s not what I’m--”

“He just wants to feel a connection with somebody before he has sex, MJ. You’re a girl. You understand that,” Ned says.

It’s the wrong thing to say. 

Peter knows it.

Ned knows it when MJ turns her attention to him, eyes furious but posture relaxed. “All women are incapable of severing a link between sex and their emotions, right, Ned? But Peter is the only man who wants that.”

“No,” Ned exhales. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Jar?” Peter asks.

MJ glares at him. “Shut up, asshole.” To Ned: “Jar.”

“Friends can get dinner or go to the movies together,” Peter says.

“That’s true,” she agrees, but there’s a thread of anger underneath her words. She gently closes her laptop, slowly pushing away from the table and standing. “But usually friends hang out because they want to spend time together, not so one friend can get his dick hard to fuck somebody else.”

Peter blinks.

MJ leaves. 

She slams her bedroom door.

“Shit,” Ned says. “That actually makes sense.”

Peter slumps into the chair across from Ned. “I don’t understand. We had a lot of fun last night.”

“It probably would’ve been different if I was there.”

“How?” Peter asks.

Ned shakes his head like Peter is an idiot, but this whole arrangement was Ned’s idea, so if Peter’s an idiot, Ned is just as culpable for said idiocy. If not more. “Without me there, you and MJ did kind of,” he pauses, eyebrows scrunching, face morphing into one of sympathy before he continues, “You went on a date.”

“No,” Peter says, slow. “We didn’t.”

“Kind of did.”

“_Didn’t_.”

Ned sighs, long-suffering. Peter is mildly offended as Ned uses his hand, ticking points off on his fingers: “You both got dressed up, went to a fancy restaurant, had dinner, flirted--”

“Ned,” Peter interrupts, but there’s a sinking feeling in his gut. “We didn’t flirt.”

“--and then you had sex.”

“But not with her,” Peter says.

Ned says, “Exactly.”

Peter asks,“Exactly what?”

Ned stares, and Peter hates that he thinks he knows.

“I should talk to her.”

Ned says, “Yeah, dude, obviously.”

Very helpful.

Peter walks by Michelle’s room, but he doesn’t hear anything. He thinks about knocking, about twisting the handle and opening it, apologizing.

But his brain is muddled. 

He knows he messed up. He hurt her feelings. They shouldn’t have gone to dinner last night, but it’s more complicated than that. They’ve had dinner together before. Two weeks ago they shared plates of cheap Chinese after he finished work and before her shift at the bar. The entire loft went with Flash to the newest bro comedy he wanted to see, and MJ whispered commentary funnier than the entire movie into Peter’s ear.

Last night was different, and something scary and fragile is perched on the conversation they need to have. It could topple over and break, and Peter isn’t sure he’s ready for the truth hidden within, doesn’t know how to navigate his relationship with her once he tells her he’s thought about kissing her. That he can’t kiss her. 

He doesn’t know what page he’s on, let alone the page MJ’s on. 

She’s probably chapters ahead. Maybe even finished the book already, a quick reader. 

Peter chickens out and goes to the gym to expel some tension, release the anxiety swirling around his body, making his toes clench in his shoes and fingers tap against whatever surface is nearest. He stops by the bodega to pick up a sandwich for dinner, showers, eats half the sandwich but finds he’s not really hungry. 

He squares his shoulders and knocks on MJ’s door.

Silence.

“MJ?” he calls.

More silence.

Peter opens the door.

“It’s not polite to barge into somebody’s room when they don’t respond,” she says, legs stretched out on her bed, book in her lap.

“I’m sorry.” He gulps. “I didn’t realize last night was weird for you.”

She rolls her neck and moves a receipt tucked between the pages of her book to her current spot, marking it. “Do you even know why I’m hurt?”

Peter shakes his head no, but he says, “Kind of.”

“I didn’t know it would make me feel so … not good,” she decides.

“I’m sorry.” Peter chews on his bottom lip, softly closing her door. He feels like they need privacy, and Ned and Flash are in the kitchen preparing concoctions to see who will drink the worst combination of foods. Peter can hear the blender whir. 

MJ bends the closed paperback in her palms. “It felt like I was your girlfriend without the rewards.”

“You, uh, you want the rewards?” Peter chokes, a whispered stutter of a sentence that catches in his throat. His brain can’t even begin to process what that would mean.

“No.” Too fast. “No,” she repeats, more even. “Definitely not.”

“Of course not.” Peter laughs without humor.

She bends her book the other way. “We’re just two friends who are sometimes attracted to each other.”

“You’re attracted to me?” Peter asks. 

When did it get so hot in here, and why is his tongue twice as large as normal, and why can’t he force his eyes to make contact with Michelle’s?

“Don’t do that,” she whispers.

“Do what?” He finally manages to look at her again, shifting on his feet, crossing and uncrossing his arms. 

Half her mouth ticks up into a smile. Her voice comes out stronger and more like herself: “Fish for compliments.”

“I’m not,” he hurries. He knows his face skipped right by pink to bright red. “I’m sometimes attracted to you, too.”

She rolls her eyes. “I had fun at dinner, and I’m glad you had great sex with Johnny after. But as I was waiting for the check, I felt used.”

“That makes sense.” Peter presses his lips together. “I’m really sorry.”

MJ nods. “I know you are.”

“I can find other ways to have meaningless sex.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she says, light, amused.

Peter smiles, hesitant but relieved, taking a step forward. “What does it mean, though? The other thing?” He should probably be able to say that he finds her attractive. She knew that, so it’s not like he’d be revealing anything. But it still feels like a secret, like sharing it makes it bigger than it is. “For us? We can’t see that Italian movie together anymore?”

The little crease between MJ’s eyebrows makes itself known the way it always does when she’s considering something she deems important. “No. I think it just makes things harder sometimes.” She shrugs. “We’re friends.”

“We’ll always be friends,” Peter says. 

An uneasy uncertainty flashes across MJ’s face before she offers him a small smile that makes his heart do a weird, pinchy thing in his chest. “Yeah, loser, we will be.”

“Did you want to watch something?” he asks, an olive branch.

She takes it: “Sure.”

She queues up the next episode of _Criminal Minds_, leaving her laptop on her thighs, tilting it toward Peter and asking if he can see.

He shifts, trying to get comfortable, and leans his head back against her headboard. 

Michelle knocks her elbow into his. “He’s innocent,” she says about the man being brought in for questioning.

“Seems pretty creepy to me.”

“Not all creeps are serial killers.”

“But all serial killers are creeps,” Peter says.

MJ huffs a concealed laugh. 

Peter scoots down the mattress, leans toward her to avoid the glare on the screen. “If he’s guilty, you go out and get use ice cream, but if he’s innocent, I’ll do it.”

She hums. “Deal.”

“Shake on it?” Peter asks, holding out his palm.

MJ says, “Loser,” half scoff, half term of endearment. 

She shakes on it. 

Peter knows she’s right. It’s too early in the episode, and the guy is an obvious red herring. But he owes her ice cream, he thinks, an apology that isn’t obvious, something she can have without shrugging and rolling her eyes, without the stain of his guilt attached. 

She likes butter pecan, and she likes raspberry chip.

He buys her two scoops of butter pecan and lets her eat a spoonful of his raspberry chip.

“I thought you liked cookie dough?” she asks.

Peter shrugs. “Felt like something different.”

When they finish, they snuggle underneath her duvet, the sugary chill of dessert running through their veins as they watch one of Netflix’s better comedy specials, an antidote to murder.

Sort of.

Not really.

But it’s nice.

Her little breaths of laughter, the way she leans against him, head lolling onto his shoulder. 

It’s just.

Really nice.

That’s all it is. 

Really, really nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Main _New Girl_ episodes pulled from: 1x23: Backslide, 1x24: See Ya, and 2x03: Fluffer.


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I don’t know if it’s smart,” she says. “But the longer you hide your feelings, the worse it’ll get.”_
> 
> _She half-smiles, and her eyes are dark and impossible._
> 
> _Peter wants to ask her a thousand things about what she means._

Liz adjusts the pillows on Peter’s bed, propping them up against the headboard before she leans back. She crosses her ankles and folds her hands.

“What do you think?” she asks.

Peter cocks his head. “I think you should do it.”

Liz laughs. “Don’t you want to hear my reasons, first?”

“Yeah,” he says. 

Liz is rational, and she loves making pro/con lists: when deciding on which university to attend, when figuring out whether or not she should move with her parents to Portland after graduation, and when debating if she and Peter should grab pizza or Korean for dinner.

Peter doesn’t really think his opinion is necessary, but Liz likes to talk things out, and he appreciates being her sounding board. 

“I just don’t feel that passionate about modeling anymore, if I ever did. I’m still getting jobs, but there doesn’t seem to be any opportunities for growth. The money is good, but I’ve paid off my student loans. I have decent savings, and MJ said I could work at the bar until I figure out what I want to pursue.”

“I think you should do it,” he repeats.

“Re-up or leave?” 

“You should leave,” Peter clarifies.

“But I haven’t been job-hunting.”

Peter smiles. “You have savings.”

“I’ll get bored doing nothing all day.”

“You’ll read. You’ll run in the park. Maybe redecorate your bedroom so you’re not still using the extra sheets you stole from your parents. You’ll visit muse-- ow!” Peter says, allowing the pillow she threw at him to hit the ground. 

“You still use the broken laundry basket May got you freshman year, so you can be quiet about those floral sheets, Peter.” Liz raises an eyebrow, perfectly arched. “And you can’t expect me to just use up all my savings redecorating and being a tourist in the city I’ve lived in my whole life.”

“Of course not. MJ offered you a job at the bar.”

She tosses another pillow at him.

Peter ducks, enjoying the light sound of her laughter. He throws the pillow back, and Liz hugs it tightly, mouth pressed firm. “I think I’m going to leave the agency.”

“Good choice.”

“Thanks, Pete.” She bends her knees, pulling her legs back, feet flat on the mattress. “Can the ball of anxiety in my stomach go away now?”

“It built a home, Liz. Give it two weeks.”

The corners of her mouth tilt up. “What time is it?” 

“6:51.”

“Should we head to the bar?” She swings her legs over the side of Peter’s bed. 

“If Ned and Flash are ready,” he says, using his desk as leverage to lift himself from its corresponding chair and groaning. 

“Forget to stretch after the gym?”

“Forgot to stretch after Johnny,” Peter corrects. 

After the fiasco with Michelle, Peter discovered a movie centering around a romantic relationship will emotionally fluff him before seeing Johnny -- _Before Sunrise_ was an inspired choice, and while _Blue Valentine_ probably shouldn’t have worked, it did. He’s not too keen on trying to analyze why. In a pinch, a wisely chosen episode of _The Mindy Project_ will suffice. Peter’s watched “You’ve Got Sext” so many times he has the jokes memorized. 

“Ah,” Liz says. Her eyes sparkle, amused, as Peter closes his bedroom door. “How’s that going?”

“Good.” 

“Any progress?”

Peter frowns, eyebrows creased. “Uh, not sure what you mean.”

“Any moments of connection? Banter outside the bedroom? Any sharing of embarrassing childhood stories? Johnny ever ask about the weird scar on your knee from when you tripped on the playground?”

“Was tripped,” Peter corrects. Because Sammy stuck his foot out on purpose, and he and his circle of friends all laughed when Peter fell, scraping up his hands, small, stingy cuts to go with the large one on his knee, only helped by the jagged rock he didn’t know was on the pavement.

“Yeah,” Liz says, offering a small, sympathetic smile. “Progress.”

“It’s not like that.”

Neither Ned nor Flash are in the living room, but the faint sound of Flash’s pump up music spills out of the bathroom, mostly thumping bass. 

Liz tilts her head, fiddling with a button on her jacket and settling on a kitchen stool, toes wrapping around one of the bottom rungs. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” she says, slow. “If you’re sure.”

Peter says, “Liz,” and it might sound like a whine.

She says, “Peter,” and instead of mocking him, like MJ would, it’s soft and dewy. A different expression of affection. 

“You think I’m being irresponsible.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I’m glad you’re expanding your horizons.”

“But,” he urges.

“But I worry that you’re going to get stuck.”

Pete blinks, crossing his arms. “What does that mean?”

He watches Liz exhale, entire body sagging with it despite her posture never slacking. Her eyes are kind and sincere, and he sees the worry in them, the care in which she decides on how to word what she says next. It’s a question: “Are you sleeping with anyone else?”

“Of course not.”

“I didn’t think so,” she says. “But if you wanted to, you could?”

Oh.

Peter gets it now. 

He has Johnny, so he isn’t putting himself out there. Liz knows him. She knows he wants a relationship. He wants someone to snuggle with at night, and he wants someone to make coffee for in the morning, and he wants someone whose hand he can hold while they wait on the subway platform. 

“I’m not ready for anything serious. I tried that, and it didn’t work. I’m just having fun right now.” Peter goes to run a hand through his hair, stops short and rubs at the back of his neck instead. “Johnny and I talked about what we wanted. We’re on the same page.”

She purses her lips, says, “Okay, Peter.”

He thinks she might mean something else, because he worries that Liz babies him sometimes. Like she still thinks of him as the little second grader crying on the playground, causing her to leave her game of foursquare to walk him to the school nurse. 

“Just because the relationship isn’t progressing, it doesn’t mean I’m not,” he says. 

Liz nods, and Flash’s music gets louder as he slides into the living room, speakers blasting some Eminem song. “Let’s go!” he shrieks.

He waves his phone around before pressing some buttons, the music shifting to the speakers connected to the television. 

It prompts Ned to pop up, hands covering his ears. He screams, “Let’s go before I burst an eardrum!”

Flash says, “Woo!”

Liz asks, “Eminem, really?”

“Eight mile, baby!”

Her smile is tight. “Don’t call me ‘baby,’ Eugene.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ‘ma’am,’ either,” she says, an amused tilt to her mouth to accompany the amused shake of her head. 

The bar’s usual Saturday evening population crowds the place. The music over the speakers close to drowned out by idle chit-chat. Liz dances with Flash, having worked their way to the center of the dancefloor. Ned and Betty sit in the booth Peter abandoned when they ignored his question about buying another round, their faces an inch apart.

Peter is fairly certain the only reason they don't make out in public is because Betty has enough decorum for everybody in this bar. At least when it comes to PDA.

She still sticks her nose up when she thinks one of Peter’s jokes is particularly stupid. 

Johnny’s working overnight, and Peter doesn’t know exactly what it is Johnny does, doesn’t even have an inkling that could approach accurate, if he’s being honest, but he still opens their text messages, makes sure nothing new has popped up since he last checked five minutes ago. 

He sets his phone down, takes a sip of his fruity cocktail and watches MJ pop open a beer bottle. Peter’s never seen anyone order a beer that’s not on tap before, not here, and he watches MJ slide it to a handsome man in a fitted blazer. 

The man sees him looking and winks. Peter ducks his head, taking another long pull from his damp paper straw. 

The embarrassment is just starting to fade when Peter feels a tap on his shoulder.

“Hey,” the blazer-wearer says, beer held by the neck.

“Hi.”

“What’s your name?” he asks. 

“Peter.” He nods, mouth pressed thin and shoulders tense. 

The blazer-wearer says, “I’m Rick.”

“Like Springfield.”

Rick quirks an eyebrow, and his hand spreads over Peter’s shoulder. Peter shrugs him off, scooting far enough away on his stool that he shifts one foot onto the ground, leaning against the bar to keep steady. 

“And what is a guy who looks like you doing alone at a bar like this?” Rick asks, wiping his hand on his pants.

“Having a drink.”

Rick laughs, low and dangerous.

Peter doesn’t like it. “You know, I’m not really interested in any--”

“Oh, come on,” Rick cuts him off. “It’s Saturday night.”

“Live from New York?” Peter tries, smile teetering uncomfortably around his mouth. 

“See, you are flirting with me. Playing hard to get.”

“No, I’m not,” Peter rushes. “I’ve never done that! I don’t know how. I’m really sorry, but--”

Rick raises an arm, beckoning a bartender over with a small wave. “Let me buy you a drink first. I’m a gentleman. Scout’s honor.”

Peter snorts. 

Rick doesn’t take it as derision, smile playing on his mouth as he leans in and Peter leans away. Peter’s definitely going to fall off his stool, hand gripping the edge of the bar. 

“Are you hitting on my boyfriend?” MJ asks. 

She’s his actual hero because it causes Rick to stand back up. Peter straightens too, sits more comfortably on his stool, reaching out and pulling his glass closer. 

Rick eyes MJ up and down. “Yeah... _right_.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” MJ asks, eyes narrowing.

“She is,” Peter jumps in. “Yep. She’s my girlfriend.”

It’s cowardly. The lie. Peter feels like he should just be honest with Rick. He’s available to be flirted with, but he doesn’t want that right now, not from Rick, at least. Peter’s not interested, and Rick is sleazy, rude, and infringed upon Peter’s personal space.

Rick glances at Peter, and then back at Michelle, shaking his head. 

“She’s got nothing going on,” her says, waving at her, implying more than Peter can probably wrap his head around because MJ is awesome. Rick has one solid thing to say, though: “She’s a _bartender_.”

“And you didn’t _tip_.”

“You opened a bottle, sweetheart.”

MJ says, “Not my fault you bought a cheap, bottled beer.”

Peter says, “MJ’s the best bartender in the world. She made my blueberry thing perfectly.”

“Blueberry vojito,” MJ adds helpfully.

“Yeah.” Peter smiles at her.

Rick eyes Peter, MJ, and then Peter again. 

Peter takes another slurp of his drink. It really is very good. Sweet and summery despite the fact that it’s mid-October. Blueberries muddled prettily at the bottom of his glass. 

“Well. I’ll be around if you ever want someone with a retirement fund and enough strength to be a good lay.”

“No thanks!” Peter calls after him.

MJ laughs, uninhibited and hearty, and Peter likes the way her eyes sparkle in the dim light of the bar on the weekends. All hazel and lovely. “God, that guy was a dick.”

“Thanks for saving me,” Peter says.

She shrugs. “Eh, I’m sure you’ll prove that I’m ‘the best bartender in the world’ when you tip.”

“I’m gonna be the best tipper in the world.”

Michelle tilts her chin at him, mouth twisted. She hums, doubtful, and walks away to help another customer. 

Peter rolls over, mist of sweat on his body, breathing still heavy, and smiles.

“Wow,” Johnny returns, leaning over to kiss Peter. “I’m so good at that.”

“Can’t argue with you there,” Peter laughs, propping himself up on an elbow. He runs his other hand through his hair, watching Johnny shift to match his own position. Peter likes Johnny’s hair mussed, the plump wetness of his lips, the beginnings of a hickey blooming at the base of his throat. Peter likes that Johnny looks like that, spent and satiated, because of him. 

“You’re alright,” Johnny says.

“Hey!”

“I’m just kidding, Pete.” He kisses Peter again, soft and light. “Wouldn’t keep coming back otherwise.”

“Twice in three days,” Peter confirms.

Johnny’s phone beeps. 

“Let’s not limit ourselves,” he says, grabbing the device. “And I gotta run to work.” 

“Painting murals?” Peter asks.

Johnny chuckles, getting out of bed. “Nope.”

“Sanitation supervisor?”

“Uh,” he starts, pulling his boxers back on. “No. Not that, either.”

Peter bites his bottom lip, staring at Johnny. He’s fit, and funny, and smart. It’s a puzzle, and Peter likes puzzles. Whenever spring break came around, Peter, Ben and May used to clear the kitchen table and spread out the pieces of the most difficult puzzles they could find. They never had money to go anywhere, and Ben and May could never take more than a day or two off work, but between the evening puzzles and homemade puppy chow, it always felt special. 

“Personal trainer?” Peter tries. “Nutritionist?”

Johnny zips up his jeans. “Nice try, but no.”

“You can tell me your job. It’s not going to change anything. You know I’m a teacher, and I’m not any worse at this whole sex thing because of it.”

“That made you hotter, actually,” Johnny says, picking up his shirt off the floor. He slips his arms through it, starts buttoning from the bottom. 

“Don’t get gross,” Peter says.

Johnny waggles his eyebrows. “What? Never been hot for teacher?”

“I _am_ the teacher.”

“Eh,” Johnny says, hand waving sideways in a seesaw of protest. “Fifty-fifty. And I accidentally found out because Ned asked if your students’ labs worked out. I didn’t snoop around your apartment or try to start a game of 20 questions.”

“Twenty questions is a classic post-sex game.”

“The fact that you think there are post-sex games is oddly endearing, but no.” His phone beeps again, and he grabs it off the nightstand, throwing a goodbye over his shoulder as he rushes out of Peter’s bedroom. 

Peter likes Johnny. 

And he’s starting to worry he likes him too much. More than a mindless hookup should be liked. 

Peter’s never done this before, so he doesn’t know where to draw the line. But Johnny kisses him more, too, the quick, chaste kind of kiss that is sweet and leads nowhere. He lingers longer after they’ve had sex, asks about his students’ lab work and whether their write-ups are improving. 

He thinks maybe Johnny likes him back. 

It might be the first sign of a problem. 

Maybe Liz was onto something because she knows Peter like the back of her hand -- Peter’s never quite understood how that phrase makes sense. He doesn’t spend a lot of time looking at or thinking about the back of his hand, but he knows what it means, and Liz plays piano, so she’s statistically more likely to have looked at the back of her hand a lot.

Point is, she knows him. Probably saw this coming the first time Peter texted her about Johnny, because she’s the smartest people-person in the world besides May. And obviously, as covered, Peter’s not telling May about his booty call. 

He flops back onto his bed, staring at the ceiling before the sweat starts to dry uncomfortably against his skin and he shuffles to the bathroom to shower. 

He sits in the living room with Flash watching a _Real Housewives_ marathon because Flash commandeered the television, claiming he pays the entire cable bill (he does) and that MJ said it’s one of the only shows that allows women in their 40s and 50s to be complex, messy people with both endearing and awful attributes. 

It sounds like something she might say, but it also sounds like it might be bullshit. _Endearing?_ Could definitely be bullshit. Probably bullshit.

A woman is crying and freaking out about how, “when you were in high school, I was in Brooklyn,” so, honestly?

Absolute bullshit. 

But Peter is interested enough in the bullshit and his cereal, starting to turn soggy in his milk, that he doesn’t mind Flash lying about MJ’s opinions in order to convince him to watch an absurd reality show. Not much convincing was needed anyway. _New York_ was never Peter’s franchise, set too close to home. But it’s similar enough to the episodes of _Orange County_ he devoured after Ben died to feel weirdly familiar.

His phone vibrates against his hip, half-lodged between the chair and cushion. 

_My hospital badge is in ur room. Not an emergency but if u could bring it that’d be great._

Peter blinks. Rereads the text. 

His bowl tilts and a splash of milk wets his pajama pants. 

“Johnny works in a hospital,” he says, more to himself than the room. 

“He’s a surgeon.” Flash waves Peter off. “Now, shhh.”

“A surgeon?” Peter can practically feel his eyes pop out of his head like one of those squishy toys. 

“Shut up, Penis. Bethenny and Jill’s friendship is falling apart.” 

“I thought that was Alex?”

Flash ignores him in favor of turning the volume up a few notches. 

Peter drains the remaining milk into the sink and struggles to get the cereal down the forever-reluctant garbage disposal. He heads back to his bedroom, looking for the elusive ID, head spinning. Figuring out how Johnny lost it is simple enough, but Peter wonders if Johnny was more purposeful about hiding his life from Peter than Peter has ever been about his own. 

It causes a dull ache in Peter’s chest, and he blinks away the pulse of hurt as his hand hits the ID just underneath the edge of his bed. 

He changes into something acceptable before bringing the badge to the hospital, navigating the sterile, depressing environment well enough. He talks to a receptionist and then argues with her when she tries to send him home. 

When he flashes Johnny’s ID, she wrinkles her brow. “Did you steal that?”

Peter balks. “No!”

“Then why do you have Dr. Storm’s ID?”

“Because he left it!”

“Left it?” she asks. 

Peter feels his face heat up, but he isn’t sure what Johnny’s colleagues know about his personal life, so he swallows around the knowledge that Johnny likes to twist his fingers in Peter’s hair and likes when Peter bites along his collarbone. Peter feels the information bloom pink and embarrassing on his skin, anyway.

He clears his throat. “At my apartment. We had-- we had dinner.”

She eyes him skeptically but says she’s paging Dr. Storm, and Peter can wait in one of the uncomfortable, plastic chairs in the reception area. 

He waits, alone, under the bright, harsh fluorescents. He tracks where they meet the dimmed hallway lights to his right. He taps his fingers against his jeans, tries to blink the tired, unfocused feeling away, and when it doesn’t work, Peter leans forward, pressing his palms against his eyelids. 

“You can leave it with me,” the receptionist calls.

Peter’s head snaps up. “Huh?”

“Dr. Storm’s ID. I can keep it until he arrives.”

“Oh, yeah. That makes sense. Yeah.” Peter stands, the corner of the laminate poking against his palm before he hands it over. 

“Thanks.” She nods and points him toward the elevator he came up on. 

The stairwells are locked this late at night. Peter learned that on his way in. 

“No problem.” He stuffs his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. 

Peter feels weird, but he doesn’t know why. He’s spent after sex, tired after a long day at work, and his chest feels cold and empty. He shouldn’t be here, and not just because visiting hours are over. 

“Peter!” Johnny calls, and he stops outside the elevator, on the precipice of the darkened hallway. 

“Hi.”

“Thanks for bringing my ID,” Johnny says. 

He wears normal clothes except for one of those white doctor coats, and Peter thinks it must mean Johnny’s important. There’s a bulletin board filled with crayon drawings behind his head. Peter reads a note in a child’s dark green handwriting: _Dr. Johny saved my life. Thank you for taking car of me. -- Alex, age 7_. 

Peter looks at Johnny, and his insides do that swoopy, flippy, feelings thing that is absolutely not part of their arrangement. 

“You’re a doctor,” he says.

“Surgeon,” Johnny corrects.

“For children.”

Johnny shrugs, nonchalant. “Somebody’s gotta do it, and it makes me look like a good person.”

Peter presses his mouth closed so he doesn’t tell Johnny that he has a sneaking suspicion Johnny actually _is_ a good person.

“Thanks again,” Johnny says. “I’ll see you later.”

And because Peter cannot stop himself from slipping into dubious territory, he says, “I’m going to a haunted house on Saturday.” He runs a hand through his hair. “With MJ. Ned and Betty and Flash and Liz, too. So, like, it wouldn’t be anything, like, you know.” He lets out a short huff of air through his nose. “You could come. If you want.”

Johnny stares at Peter like he knows the invitation isn’t very innocent. 

Or entirely too innocent. 

He settles on: “I don’t know.”

“No big deal.” Peter shrugs. “Just if you can make it, you could … make it.”

“Okay,” Johnny laughs, shaking his head just twice. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Sure.” 

“Thanks again, for the--”

“--the ID, yeah.”

Peter feels like he just asked Johnny out on a date, and the idea of going backwards, not that there is anything particularly essential about how society sets up courtship, feels nice. Sleep together, friends, falling in love, dating. 

It’s a bad thought.

It’s a nice thought, too. 

Peter has stitches over his left eyebrow, blood dripping down one side of his mouth, and half of his right sleeve has been shredded. He sits at a picnic table outside the haunted house, trying to squint beyond Flash, who plopped down on top of it, feet against the bench on the opposite side. 

“What if we get split up?” Ned asks, readjusting the cowboy hat on his head. 

“None of us are going alone,” Peter says. “You and Betty will go in together, at least.”

“Yeah, how will anybody tell you’re a cowboy without your cowgirl?” MJ asks flatly. 

“Nobody even knows who you are,” Ned counters. 

MJ shrugs. 

She straightened her hair, wears dark jeans, a button-up white shirt, and a blazer. There’s a laminated, fake BAU ID hanging off her hip. She’s Emily Prentiss, or a random agent, doesn’t really matter. It’s not obvious, especially when you can’t see the badge. 

“I think you look great,” Peter says. Because she does. “And you didn’t spend any money!”

“Not to walk through a bunch of dark rooms,” she answers, shooting Peter a tight smile. 

“Not my fault I have money to spend,” Flash says. 

He’s sexy Abe Lincoln. Flash ran the idea by them, saying the average American thinks about Abraham Lincoln at least three times a day, sex at least five times a day, and sex with Abraham Lincoln at least once a day. No citations. 

It’s terrible.

Peter doesn't know how, but he knows it could be even more terrible.

Everybody ignores Flash’s bragging.

Betty says, “The line is getting worse.

Peter says, “It’ll go down again.”

“Johnny’s not coming,” Liz comforts, looking up from her phone and placing a gentle hand on Peter’s bicep.

“He could be.”

“He’s not.”

Peter counters, “You don’t know that.”

Liz sighs. “MJ, tell him.”

“He said he’d try to make it, and it’s not even eight,” Peter says. He saw Johnny after the hospital. A quickie at Johnny’s place before Peter met May and Liz for dinner downtown. “We should wait until at least eight, you know? Give him a chance. He said it sounded fun.”

He did. He said he likes Halloween and all things spooky.

Probably not as much as MJ, who shelved everything else to read Stephen King, watch horror movies, and carve pumpkins. She did an excellent Frankenstein and a startlingly good Madeline Kahn as Mrs. White: _Flames, flames on the side of my face_. Peter carved a jack-o-lantern with a crooked, goofy smile and only one tooth. MJ laughed but displayed it in the middle of her masterpieces. She let Peter pick the background noise, _Practical Magic_, as a break from her Del Toro marathon.

It was nice. Better than sitting on her bed and watching _Criminal Minds_.

MJ looks at him across the rotting picnic table, one strand of hair cutting through her face in the mild breeze. “Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” Peter huffs. “I just. If he comes, I think… I think it means he might like me.”

“Oh.”

“God, you’re such a loser,” Flash snickers.

“He’s not a mindreader, Peter,” Liz says. 

“I know that.”

Liz never thought Johnny was a good idea. She’s biased. She might be right, but Peter wants to flirt with the possibility that she isn’t. 

“It’ll be the first time we’ve really hung out since we met, you know? That’s something,” Peter says.

Liz hesitates. 

Ned says, “Yeah, totally, dude.”

Betty says, “That’s nice, Peter.”

Flash says, “I’d pay good money for a no strings attached fuckbuddy.”

“That’s an escort,” MJ points out.

“That’s not what I--” Flash sputters. “I don’t have to pay for sex. I’ve got oodles of sex appeal. I go out and people can’t keep their hands off me!”

MJ rolls her eyes before looking at Peter. Her face blanking, eyes narrowing as she studies him. She softens, tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “I don’t know if it’s smart,” she says. “But the longer you hide your feelings, the worse it’ll get.”

She half-smiles, and her eyes are dark and impossible.

Peter wants to ask her a thousand things about what she means. About Harry, maybe.

Peter knows MJ opens up at her own pace, and he knows that Harry doesn’t matter anymore. A thing of the past. She’s finally moved on, but there’s a part of him that still wants to know. 

Peter kind of wants to know everything about Michelle. 

He knows everything about Liz, he reasons.

Same thing.

“Wait,” Betty says, holding her hands over her eyes like a visor despite the very apparent lack of sun. “I think Johnny is over there?”

Peter squints. 

Flash turns, reaching back to smack Peter’s arm. “Nice, Parker!”

“Hey, guys,” Johnny says, grinning at them. He has his white hospital coat on. 

“Did you come as a surgeon?” MJ asks. 

“Oh, no, give me one second.” He reaches into one of his coat pockets, pulling out a pair of fangs and popping them into his mouth. “I’m Carlisle Cullen.”

Peter laughs, and so does Liz. MJ hums, nodding in approval. 

Ned’s brow creases. “You’re as bad as MJ.”

They get split up.

There’s room for three, and right before Peter, Johnny and Liz enter, Johnny gets a phone call, and then it’s Flash.

The house is dark, the pitch black broken by strobe lights. The amateur, grayish face paint Ned helped Peter smear across his skin pales in comparison to the almost green, realistic, open sores pimpling the zombies in front of them, wailing, grunting, hissing. 

Peter winces and grabs Liz’s hand.

She hunches, cautiously heading through a door into a room filled with cold, white mist. Or smoke. Peter isn’t sure exactly what it is, but he shivers and squints, firming up his grip on Liz’s fingers. 

Flash shrieks, pushing against Peter’s back, twisting the fabric in his hand so the collar of it shifts tight around Peter’s neck. 

“Don’t,” Peter grits, reaching behind him to try and pull Flash’s fingers away without looking back. 

Looking back seems like a bad idea. 

Peter doesn’t know why, but it does. 

“Don’t touch me!” Flash hollers. He shoves Peter at a vampire, face white, fangs sharp and glistening, wet, brownish-red blood dripping down his chin. He holds a realistic-looking heart between his palms. Peter stumbles before he touches the thing. 

Liz yanks him along, shoulders hitched up and upper body bent forward slightly, head bowed. Her pace is steady, just a bit too quick to be normal.

She doesn’t scream. Flash can’t stop screaming. The sound rings in Peter’s ears.

Flash yells, “Take him!” at a mad scientist, hair classically teased like she’s been shocked with static electricity. The hoarse laugh that bubbles out of her throat as she revs a chainsaw -- real? Not real? None of this is real, Peter reminds himself -- scarier than the costume. 

They walk down a dark hallway. Quiet. Peter feels something light brush against his arm.

Flash screams again, using Peter as a shield. 

The silence is broken by someone calling Peter’s name. 

Flash pushes into him, hard, and Peter knocks against Liz.

Flash says, “What the fuck!”

MJ says, “Peter!”

Liz says, “Jesus Christ.”

Peter says, “Huh?”

“Let’s go,” MJ says. She’s all shadow here. Peter can’t make her out clearly. Her voice is flat but tense, stressed.

Peter wonders, briefly, if this is part of the haunted house. If they’ve managed to look inside his brain and project a hallucination that'll be infinitely more terrifying than a replica of the twins from _The Shining_ blinking up at him, voices too even to be natural. 

But why would MJ be part of his haunted house nightmare?

It doesn’t make sense. 

It’s not logical.

When she grabs his wrist, fingers pressing almost unpleasantly into his bones, she drags him along faster than Liz. Peter knows this is real, and Michelle’s breathing hard.

“Did you run here?” Liz asks. 

“No.”

Peter blinks even though he knows it won’t help, jumping when another feather-light touch trails along his neck. Flash grips MJ’s other arm, cowering behind her instead of Peter. 

Liz continues forward by herself: steady, sane, confident. The fear on her face a flat line, constant but measured. When Peter catches her eyes in another room with strobe lights, he knows she’s having fun, little spikes of adrenaline making her pulse quicken. 

MJ can’t seem to get Peter out of here fast enough, lets Flash cling to her like a remora to a shark, not bothering to turn her head at a grunting mummy with burnt eyes, crust around the rims like the gunk that builds up in the corners while sick. 

When she pushes open the door to the last room, Peter squints against the lights. They’re dim, but his eyes still need to adjust; everything feels bright in comparison to the rest of the haunted house. 

The room contains a haphazard gift shop: shirts, stuffed animals, mugs, a packet of orange and black glow sticks. All the merchandise is piled onto rickety folding tables. The girl behind the cash register dresses in a typical witch costume, little silver stars painted over the black tulle of her skirt, pointed end of the black hat tipped over, hair a cheap, purple wig. 

Flash coughs, says, “Scaredy cats. Had to hold hands to get through it.”

MJ scoffs, but she drops Peter’s wrist.

Flash slinks away to look at some glass figures before MJ can say something about the death-grip he had on her shoulders as he followed her through the second half of the house. 

“I need to talk to you,” she says, eyeing the various people milling about. 

“Okay.”

Something swoops uncomfortably in his gut, but he smiles at the witch before following MJ back outside. 

They find another picnic table to sit at, side-by-side. 

“Are you--?” Peter starts.

She cuts him off. “You can’t tell Johnny.”

“What?” His brow furrows.

“It’s a bad idea.”

She’s looking forward. He sees her jaw clench.

“Why do you think that?” Peter asks.

“I just.” She exhales a quiet and annoyed breath of air. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Peter watches her tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. It stays easily now, the hassle of her wavy curls gone. Peter swallows. “Did he… did he say something while I was … in there.” He sort of nods toward the house, but MJ’s still not looking at him.

“Liz and Flash bought stuff,” she says.

Peter tears his eyes away from her, and he sees the two of them. A shirt hangs over Liz’s arm, and Flash allows her to rifle through the small gift bag he has. He probably bought one of those figurines, whichever thing was most expensive.

“Did you want something?” Peter asks, but he’s not really thinking about postcards with pictures of hands dripping in blood or a stuffed teddy bear that looks like a skeleton. 

“No,” she says. 

“MJ?”

She finally turns her head, catches his gaze. “It’s better to be cautious, don’t you think?”

She bites at the corner of her mouth, just barely tugging in the edge of her bottom lip. Her eyes are open but searching, a little crease making itself known between her eyebrows. “You don’t want to get hurt,” she says, monotone. But it doesn’t override the way she’s looking at him like she’s scared for him. 

He’s scared, too, but her concern makes him feel nice. Brave. “I think I really like him, MJ.”

She nods once, mouth tight.

“If I’m going to get hurt, then I’m going to get hurt. Today, or some other day.”

“Okay,” she says. 

Peter smiles, bumping his shoulder gently against hers. “But he came tonight, you know? I think that’s a good sign.”

“Maybe.”

“Did he say something?” Peter asks again. 

Michelle stares at her feet, drawing circles against the dying grass with her shoe. She shrugs before meeting his eyes. “Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t know how you feel.”

“Yeah,” Peter whispers. “That changes things.”

“It does,” she agrees. She swallows. “He’s out now.”

Peter spots Johnny laughing with Betty and Ned. He wipes his palms against his thighs, breathes and attempts to lighten the rock sitting heavy in his stomach. He stands, shaking his shoulders out. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” MJ says, smile unsteady.

“Thanks.” 

Peter shoots her a thumbs up.

She rolls her eyes. 

He laughs, rock a little lighter. 

Peter approaches the group, now sitting at a table closer to the house, away from where Peter and Michelle were. “Hi.”

“Hey!” Ned smiles. “What’d you think?”

Peter nods. “It was good.”

Flash says, “He basically pissed himself until MJ showed up to save him.”

Liz wrinkles her eyebrow. “Then what would you call your screaming?”

“I was trying to push him over the edge into actually pissing himself.”

Liz laughs, shaking her head. “Sure, Eugene.”

“What’d you guys think?” Peter asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

“It was awesome,” Johnny answers

Betty says, “They depended too much on the strobe lights.”

“But it was fun, right, babe?” Ned asks.

Betty grabs his hand, lacing her fingers through his. She smiles a sickly sweet thing that would read insincere on anyone else. “Yes. It was a lot of fun.”

Peter looks at Johnny. He wants that. He wants that with him. The pet names and the hand holding and the special smiles that annoy everyone around you but the person you love. 

“Cool. Good.” Peter clears his throat. “Hey, Johnny, can I talk to you?”

“Can you?” Johnny asks, smirking even as he stands.

Peter laughs, but he’s too nervous for it to be real. It tinkers out of him like a music box that needs to be rewound. 

They wander to a sparse patch of grass too close to the road, cars zipping into the makeshift parking lot and out again. A few crushed cans of beer people didn’t bother to recycle, didn’t even throw into a trashcan, litter the area. 

“What’s up?” Johnny asks. He tilts his head, eyes widening playfully. “You don’t have gonorrhea do you?”

“No!” Peter sputters, shaking his head too quickly.

“Relax, Peter,” Johnny chuckles. “Breathe.”

“Sorry.” Nerves bubble up his throat, and he rubs at the nape of his neck. “But, um, about that.”

“Chlamydia?” 

“No.”

“Syphilis? Wow.”

“Johnny,” Peter sighs. “I like you.”

Johnny ducks his head, eyeing Peter in confusion. “Okay?”

“I’m sorry, I just… I like you. I like that you’re a doctor, and that you take care of kids, and that you came here today. I like that you get along with all my roommates. I think you’re a good person. I tried to do the casual thing, Johnny. I swear. But I like you.” 

Peter feels shaky, sick to his stomach. Johnny’s mouth thins. He looks away, breathing out, a low sound, shoulders falling. “Peter…”

“I know.”

“I wasn’t lying,” Johnny says. His adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. “I’m seeing other people.”

“Oh.” Peter’s next breath feels cold and sharp. He doesn’t know why it hits like a surprise. He didn’t know for certain, but it seems obvious now that Johnny’s said it and spoken it into existence. 

“I’m not looking for anything serious.”

“Yeah.” Peter nods. “You said that.”

“I meant it.” Johnny offers a genuinely sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry, too.”

It breaks Peter’s heart to be pulled into a hug. He tucks his chin into Johnny’s shoulder, screws his eyes shut and bites his cheek to keep his tears from welling, breaking, falling. Johnny hugs him close, and Peter’s hands are spread and loose against his shoulder blades. 

He pulls away first. 

“Thanks for being honest,” Johnny says, eyes conflicted but dry.

“You, too.” Peter’s voice is wet. He blinks back tears. “I’m gonna, uh, go back to…” He turns his head and doesn’t spot Liz, Betty, or any of his roommates. He waves in the direction of the table anyway. “Yeah. I’ll, well, I guess I won’t see you later.”

“Probably not.” 

Peter walks back aimlessly, wiping at his eyes. 

Liz finds him first and wraps him in a hug. Flash offers to give Peter his absurdly expensive glass black cat, looks like he wants to call it something else but refrains. Peter appreciates the self-control.

Betty offers a small smile, and Ned offers to treat him to ice cream on the way home.

MJ nods in understanding, like she knew exactly what was going to happen. 

On the way back, MJ asks Peter if he wants to watch _Crimson Peak_, and Peter agrees.

Liz gently nudges him, eyes wide, boring into him like something very important just happened, like she thinks he missed it. Peter shakes his head before leaning against the window of Flash’s car. 

The apartment is quiet and still when they get back. It feels frozen in time, uninhabited, like when Peter, Ben and May spent a week in Myrtle Beach. It’s the only vacation Peter’s ever been on. Coming home was a relief, but odd, too. Like he’d forgotten the tangible reality of his life while they were gone. 

Liz kisses Peter on the cheek, hugs him like he’s fragile, and promises to call in the morning. Flash offers to take Peter clubbing. Peter thanks him but declines.

“Wise.” Ned nods solemnly. “Last time I went to a club with Flash, I got attacked by a flamingo.”

Peter finds himself in MJ’s bed, watching her putter around before lighting an autumn candle. When she reaches across her desk to unplug her laptop, the stretch reveals a smooth strip of skin between her t-shirt and pajama pants, rolled down twice at the waist. Her hair is pulled back, still straightened. She’s beautiful, always, but Peter misses her curls.

“Hey, can we watch--”

“_Criminal Minds_?” she asks.

“No.” Peter shakes his head. That’s her comfort thing. Doesn’t quite do the same for him. “Nevermind.”

“What?” MJ asks, settling next to him, opening her laptop.

“_Dirty Dancing_?” Peter asks. 

“Sure.” 

Peter grabs the DVD from his room. MJ turns off her lamp, leaving a soft, warm light from the cinnamon apple candle, and the harsh, cool light from her laptop. Baby tells Johnny she’s scared of everything, building up to a love confession, building to a dance, building to sex. 

Peter says, “You knew.”

“Hm?”

“You knew he didn’t want a relationship.”

Michelle pauses the movie. 

Peter unpauses it. 

“He got a text after the phone call. From somebody else.” She looks at Johnny and Baby dancing, looks at Peter. Their arms brush. “I should have told you.”

“No.” Peter shakes his head. “I would have wanted to see if the way I felt mattered.”

MJ rubs her lips together, eyes sad and kind. “But if you hadn’t said anything, you’d still be together.”

“Together,” Peter repeats. “Sort of. Yeah.”

“I admire that,” she admits softly. “You put yourself out there.” Her hand moves to steady her laptop on her thighs. The scene fades. She blinks, and Peter watches her eyelashes flutter. “You deserve someone who’s crazy about you, Peter.”

Peter swallows around something thick and heavy. “Thanks, Em.”

The edges of her lips tilt up in a tight, taciturn smile before she turns back to the film. Her body is tense for a long moment, but Peter can feel when she relaxes, melting into the mattress and the pillow behind her back. 

Peter cautiously leans his head against her shoulder. “I could do the lift,” he says. 

She laughs. “Show off.”

Peter can feel her hesitation, aware of each point where their bodies touch before she settles again, leaning her head on top of his.

“I’ll show you some time,” he says. 

“Like hell you will.”

“Why not? You don’t trust me?”

“No,” MJ exhales, exasperated. “I don’t like heights.”

“Are you saying I’m tall?”

“No.” She pokes him with her elbow. “Shut up. I don’t have this movie memorized like you do.”

“Okay, you’re right,” he relents. “You don’t want to miss this masterpiece.” 

She’s soft and warm next to him, cozy like fall. He tries to glance up at her watching the movie, but he can’t really see much from this position, can’t move his head with her cheek and chin against his hair. She smells lovely, a little bit like smoke from outside the haunted house, a little bit like soap, a little bit like vanilla.

And a little bit like home.

*

The cream swirls as Peter stirs, the spoon clinking rhythmically against his mug.

It’s late Saturday morning, late November. Thursday is Thanksgiving, and MJ reminded everyone about the genocide it celebrates after refusing Peter’s offer to join him at May’s for dinner. Ned accepted, Liz is back in Portland, and Flash is expected at the restaurant his family booked. 

Peter takes a sip of coffee. His second cup. He squints, a patch of sun glinting off the toaster and into his eyes. A chill spreads through the apartment and the bustle of traffic slips through the windows, a loud, long honk of someone outside. 

It’s almost quaint. 

He slips along the floor in his socks, back to the sofa and a marathon of _Say Yes to the Dress_. Just as he settles in, pulling the blanket over his legs, the apartment door rattles. 

“Hey!” a man calls. “Hey!” He knocks, but it sounds like his open palm repeatedly slapping the wood rather than a fist. “Let me in! Michelle!”

Peter’s first thought is that he’s some patron from the bar, some guy she turned down who stalked his way to their apartment, drunk at 10 AM on Saturday, looking for answers MJ doesn’t owe him. 

He almost waits to see if the man goes away. 

“Chelley! Are you in there? Is this how you treat your father?”

_Oh_.

Okay. 

Peter sets his mug on the coffee table, not bothering to find a coaster. The blanket tangles around his feet, and he kicks it off, half-sprinting to the door, unlocking it and yanking it open. “Mr. Jones. Hi.”

The man tilts his head, staring down at Peter. He’s tall. Taller than Peter, and taller than Michelle. Thin, graying hair and narrow piercing eyes. His skin wrinkles from too much sun, and Peter has a feeling the man would be paler than him if it wasn’t for the light tan, sun spots, a bit of burn by his receding hairline. “Who are you?”

“I’m Peter.” Peter sticks out his hand. “Peter Parker.”

“Who?” Mr. Jones asks, voice low and gruff. 

Peter drops his hand. “MJ’s roommate.”

He appraises Peter in a way that’s all too familiar, distant and prickly. “Well, let me in.”

“Oh, right, sorry.” Peter pulls the door back, moving aside. “Is she expecting you?”

“Probably not. I sent her a text, but she never responded.”

Peter closes the door, locks it, and runs a hand through his hair. “I think she’s still asleep. Um, do you want anything? Grapefruit juice, water, there’s still some coffee?”

“No, thank you. We have to get going,” he says even as he tugs his trench coat off, spinning around until he finds the coat hooks by the door. “Ah ha!” 

“Going?” 

He says, “The race track. Obviously.”

Peter says, “Of course.”

“Peter, are you talking to yours-- Phil?!” Ned rubs at his eyes like he’s trying to clear his vision. He blinks, and a bright grin breaks out on his face. “Phil!”

“Nedward!”

Ned races forward, hugging MJ’s father, both men swaying with the force of it. 

“I missed you,” Ned says, pulling back. 

“I missed you, too, kid.” Mr. Jones grins, hands on Ned’s arms. “Look at you! What have I missed?”

“Oh, um, I actually need your advice about something. Betty and I have been together for a while now, and she’s like, so awesome, Phil. Like Princess Leia, but completely different.”

Ned rambles about Betty, and Peter sneaks down the hall to knock on MJ’s door. 

No response. 

He knocks again: _Are you ready? Are you ready? Are you ready to clown around?_

A low, gruff noise that sounds like, “No,” comes from somewhere inside her room. 

“MJ?” Peter calls. “I’m going to open your door in ten seconds.”

Another muffled grunt. 

He counts out loud before warning her that he’s opening the door. 

Michelle’s lying in bed, hair frizzing out of her bun, cheek squished against her pillow. “Go away, Peter,” she mumbles, mouth barely opening. “I didn’t fall asleep until four.”

“It’s after ten,” he says. 

She says, “I need eight hours.”

He says, “Your dad is here.”

“Nice try, loser.” She pulls the duvet more solidly over her shoulder and neck. 

“I’m not kidding. Ned and Phil are discussing how Betty is like Princess Leia.”

MJ cracks one eye open. “You’re kidding?”

“I promise I’m not.”

“Shit.” 

“You’re going to the race track,” Peter tells her, leaning against the jamb. 

She presses her face into her pillow and repeats: “Shit.” 

“Maybe this is a good thing,” Peter offers. 

Michelle glares at him. At least she’s not inhaling her pillowcase anymore. “No.”

She huffs, and her bangs flutter. Her hand peaks out again, tugging her sheets all the way to her chin. It almost looks like she’s going to pull the blankets over her head before she thinks better of it. Too juvenile. Peter closes the door, approaching slowly. 

“Maybe he’s trying to make up for… everything,” Peter tries. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know much. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

She pushes her bangs out of her face, all frustration. “My dad isn’t here for me. He’s going to the race track.”

“He’s reaching out.”

“He’s gambling.”

Peter sits on the edge of her mattress, and MJ rolls onto her back, blinking up at him. There’s something sleepy and soft about the shadows her eyelashes cast on her cheek, contrasted with the alertness in her eyes and the pinch of her mouth. He smooths his hand over the duvet to resist the urge to smooth her hair back. 

“I don’t know much about your dad, but he’s in the living room listening to Ned talk about Betty, and he came by to pick you up. He could have gone straight to the track, right?”

MJ narrows her eyes. “I guess.”

Peter smiles. “Second chances, MJ.”

She rolls her eyes and shifts her legs underneath the covers, trying to kick at him. He ends up with a knee against his thigh. “You’re wrong, and when he proves you wrong, I get to tell you that I told you.”

“Okay.”

“I hate you.”

Peter feels his grin widen. “I know you do.”

“Let’s get this over with,” MJ sighs before lacing her fingers together and stretching her arms above her head. 

Peter laughs under his breath, standing, ready to return to his coffee and his television marathon. “You’ll have a good time.”

MJ sits up quickly, frantic on anyone else but her. “Oh. You’re coming with me.”

“You’re supposed to bond with your dad.”

“Not while he gets Ned drunk on mint juleps before starting a fight with somebody in the row in front of us,” she says, smirking. It doesn’t lack humor, but there’s a knowing mean streak along the curve. 

“I think it should just be you and your dad,” Peter says.

MJ kicks off the covers, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “Ned’s not going to turn down a chance to spend time with him.”

She stares at Peter, hands braced on either side of her body like she could push herself up and start getting ready just as easily as she could flop back, close her eyes and fall asleep. 

Peter wants to protest. Ned and her dad clearly get along; maybe he’s the buffer she needs. Ned’s her best friend and understands the relationship far better than Peter. If she refuses to go alone, Ned’s the best option. She won’t have to be the middleman -- woman, person -- like she will if Peter’s there. 

But MJ’s winning facade cracks around the edges. Or, no. Peter doesn’t think that’s right. She lets him in. Her mouth tilts, one side tugging up and leaving the other behind, eyes softening, open and asking. 

She isn’t going to talk him through her life, press their thighs together while JJ is forced to take a promotion and leave the BAU. She won’t tell him whether or not her father ever attended her elementary school soccer games or high school decathlon meets. She isn’t going to confess that her dad had an explosive temper, or maybe a quieter, scarier simmering of disappointment. When Prentiss fakes her death, MJ isn’t going to stare unblinking at her laptop and explain whether her dad sat her first boyfriend down to ask about his intentions or joked about MJ paying him to take her out. 

By asking, she’s letting Peter in. 

“Okay,” he decides. “I’ll go.”

She shrugs. “Bad choice.”

“Nothing I haven’t done before.”

“Hung out with your roommate’s dad at a race track?” she asks, mouth playing with a smile again. 

Peter shakes his head, laughing. “Trying and failing to charm a friend’s parent.”

“I don’t know, loser,” MJ says, standing up. She rises onto her tiptoes, worn, wool socks on her feet, hands above her head, stretching again. “Most parents have probably liked you. You’re non-threatening.”

“Your dad didn’t seem to think so.”

“That’s because you have muscles.” She smacks his shoulder once on her way passed him. “Tell him I’ll be ready in 15.”

Peter wants to think of some witty retort about how MJ thinks he’s hot, but she’s already gone, and he’d be the one left grasping at nothing in response to her comeback anyway, ears turning red. 

It’s chilly and overcast, and Peter shoves his hands into his coat pockets, sitting between MJ and her dad. 

Ned’s on her father’s other side, leaning in, listening intently. 

“So, you never bet on the frontrunner. And you never make a showrunner bet. You want to get the most bang for your horse’s buck,” he says, pointing. “See her? She’s slated to win.”

“But we didn’t bet on her?” Ned asks.

“Neddie,” MJ’s dad says, holding his hand out like he’s presenting Ned with a silver platter, answer under the hood. 

“Because if she wins, a lot of people placed money on her, and we split the pool too many ways?”

Mr. Jones nods, clapping Ned on the back. “Exactly, son.” 

“Isn’t that irresponsible?” Peter asks. 

Mr. Jones says, “The greater the risk, the greater the reward. It all evens out eventually.”

“You break even?”

“No, you earn money.” Monotone. Mr. Jones narrows his eyes at Peter, mouth flat and thin.

“How can you be sure?”

“Faith.”

“Okay?” Peter’s voice cracks, and he clears his throat. He wants to look away, but he feels like doing so would be failing some sort of test. 

He doesn’t know why passing the test is important.

“I’m going to get another julep,” Ned says. “Anyone want anything?”

Mr. Jones breaks eye contact to reach into his coat pocket, pulling out his wallet and handing Ned a messy stack of bills. “Get one for Chelley, too.”

“No, thanks,” Michelle says. She leans back in her chair, arms crossed awkwardly over her bulky winter coat. 

“Get her one,” her dad fakes whispers to Ned.

“They’re delicious, MJ,” Ned says, straightening the money in his hand. 

“I’m good.”

“MJ.”

“I’m great.” She grins at him, terse and sarcastic. 

“Peter will have one,” Mr. Jones decides. 

“Uh,” Peter hesitates. 

MJ says, “He doesn’t like mint.” 

Peter says, “I do.”

He does.

MJ elbows him in the side. 

Ned says, “They’re _so good_.”

Mr. Jones says, “Try one. It’s on me.”

Peter says, “Sure, thanks.”

MJ’s dad cracks a smile, and Peter smiles back, shoulders loosening.

“I’ll be two seconds,” Ned promises.

MJ stands abruptly, announces, “I’m going to the bathroom.”

Peter watches her leave, boots heavy as she jogs up the concrete steps, hair still damp from her shower. 

“You want to buy Chelley a horse?” her dad asks.

“What?” Peter’s eyebrows furrow. 

“Come on.” Mr. Jones nods his head, pushing up with a low grunt. “She’ll dawdle so she has to spend less time with me, but she’ll come back eventually. If we wait too long, we’ll ruin the surprise.”

Peter blinks. “What?”

“I’m buying Michelle a horse.”

“Why?”

Her father says, “It’s a present.”

MJ’s not really an animal person. She thinks dogs are cute, but she doesn’t want one chewing her shoes or sleeping in her bed. She’s morally opposed to zoos, and she’s never watched the Kentucky Derby. But lots of little kids like horses, and maybe having her own was a dream of 5-year-old MJ’s that her father is bringing to fruition. A tangible gift of reconciliation.

Peter agrees, following Mr. Jones, who waves at one group of men placing bets, winks at a woman in a huge sun hat, and flips off another man who catches his attention as they push their way into the stables. 

The smell of manure permeates everything. 

The horse is short but majestic, fur a warm cinnamon color. She allows Peter to pet her neck, and Peter smiles softly, leans close to tell her how strong she is and how she could completely decimate him with a swift, forceful kick. 

Two men in hats that Ned would love approach them.

“Phil,” the one in a grey trench coat greets, holding out his hand.

Mr. Jones shakes it. “George and Jack, this is my nephew, Peter.”

“Oh, uh, hi.” Peter shakes George’s hand, his grip firm, almost too strong, the up and down motion he leads forceful and unsettling.

Jack nods once, hands stuffed in his coat pockets. 

“Peter’s top of his class at veterinary school. He was giving the horse the good ol’ once over, you know? Said Cinnamon seems rather unhealthy,” Mr. Jones tuts. “You’re not trying to rip me off, are you fellas?”

“What?” George asks. “What’s wrong with her?”

Mr. Jones cocks his head. “Peter?”

“Um, well, she--”

“He,” Mr. Jones corrects.

“He. Yes.” Peter turns and pets Cinnamon’s neck again. “Tons of split ends everywhere. The mane is all wrong. He-- his hooves are--”

“You’re saying Cinnamon will never race again?” MJ’s dad asks.

“Um, yeah. Looks like it.” Peter pats Cinnamon lightly on the shoulder. 

“Never race again,” Mr. Jones repeats louder, allowing everybody loitering around to hear. Peter spots a blonde woman whisper to a stocky, balding man. Another girl with riding boots and braided hair eyes them with a wan mouth. 

“Never again,” Peter says, raising his voice, too.

George groans, scraping his hand down his face. 

In the end, they get what Peter assumes is a really great deal on Cinnamon, and as they wave George and Jack away, Michelle screams, “What the fuck!”

Ned trails behind her, holding two mint juleps. Peter didn’t particularly want one anyway, and with a few strings of hay underneath his feet and the musty smell of the stables surrounding him, he’s even less inclined. 

“Chelley!” Her dad’s eyebrows both shift up. He smiles, a practiced, charming thing. 

“What did you do?” she grits out, jaw tight and popping. 

“We bought you a horse!” Peter says, throwing his hands out toward Cinnamon like he’s revealing a big surprise. 

And well. He is. 

MJ squints at him. “What?”

“Like you always wanted?” Peter tries. 

“I’ve never wanted a horse.” Her eyes cut to her dad. “How would I pay to keep a horse?”

“Well,” her dad sighs. It sounds the way his smile looked: rehearsed. There’s just enough charisma for it to be believable. He doesn’t seem dishonest. Just a mask in place. A role he knows he’s meant to play. “I suppose I can sell him for a good price. You know, horse semen is really big on the black market right now.”

“Jesus.” MJ rubs her temples. 

“I have some contacts, so it shouldn’t be too tough a sell.”

Michelle bites her lip, looking at Peter. “Please tell him you didn’t give him any money.”

“I mean, you and your dad were gonna race Cinnamon, and it’s like an investment, so... I’m an investor.” He winces. “I did.”

“Dad, you’re going to pay Peter back.” She exhales, rubbing her gloved hands together like she’s cold. “And you’re going to pay Ned back, too.”

Ned says, “Oh, Phil, that’s not necessary.” 

MJ says, “It is.”

Ned says, “No, really it’s--”

MJ grits, “It is,” turning her head to glare at him, serious and stubborn.

He nods, but when MJ turns back to Peter and her dad, Ned shakes his head sympathetically at Mr. Jones. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I thought--” her dad starts.

“Don’t.”

They watch the race in tense, awkward silence. MJ’s leg bouncing, Peter offering to share his mint julep, and one guy scurrying away, color draining from his face when her dad calls, “Hey, Mike! Long time no see!” 

Ned and Mr. Jones don’t win.

Everyone piles into an Uber back to the apartment, and Peter and Ned attempt to make small talk with the driver: _How’s your day been? Yeah, the track was fun. I teach high school science. I’ve heard there’s a really great Polish bakery just that way._

Michelle and her dad stare out opposite windows. 

Mr. Jones helps Ned style an outfit for dinner with Betty before he leaves.

“The fedora,” he advises.

“Are you sure?” Ned asks. He turns, posing, running his finger along the brim. 

“Son, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. You could sell that hat to a chicken without a head.”

Ned’s eyes widen, but he chuckles. “Phil, you’re too much.”

Mr. Jones adjusts the hat. “She’s going to love it.”

“Thanks.” Ned grins, bashful.

Peter tells him he looks like Indiana Jones, and MJ says, “You look good.” She tilts her chin, mouth small and tight as he closes the apartment door behind him. 

“I think he’s going to propose soon,” Mr. Jones says, sitting on the arm of the sofa. 

MJ hums, hip against the kitchen counter, scrolling through her phone. 

“Yeah,” Peter agrees from his perch next to the kitchen’s island, eyes drifting from father to daughter to father. “They’ve been together for a year.”

“He knows,” Mr. Jones adds. “When you meet the one, you know.”

“I’ve heard that,” Peter says. “My Aunt May claims she and my uncle had a terrible first date. The food was so awful they went to a McDonald’s drive-thru and ate in the parking lot. And even though it felt like everything had gone wrong, Ben changed the radio when Savage Garden came on, and May knew, then and there, that she was going to marry him.”

“Chelley’s mom and I got married three months after our first date,” he says, proud. “Didn’t need nobody telling us nothing.”

“Wow,” Peter says. 

He thought he was going to marry Felicia. 

He really did.

Four years together, and Peter felt like he was really beginning to settle into his life and into her. All the new relationship serotonin faded, leaving something solid and lasting. Something he could live with forever. 

Felicia had found it boring.

For her, the love hadn’t settled, but faded.

Maybe four years is too long. A sign that he didn’t know. Or that he knew it wasn’t right. Somewhere uncomfortable in his gut, pushed down in favor of the familiar. He hadn’t asked May about his mother’s ring, hadn’t even asked if she’d be willing to part with her own small diamond. 

“Just celebrated 36 years,” Mr. Jones says. 

“Oh my god, Congratulations.”

“Thanks, Pete.”

Michelle clears her throat. “I’m going to order pizza. Still like pepperoni, olive and mushroom?” 

“Of course!” her dad says. “You don’t have deep dish here, do you?”

“Sorry,” she says flatly with a half-shrug. 

Peter watches her walk away, pressing her cell to her ear. 

Mr. Jones says, “So you and my daughter--”

“Did you just come here to--” Peter starts simultaneously. “Sorry.”

Mr. Jones’s smile is wry and small and very MJ. “Go ahead.”

“Did you just come here to swindle those men out of a horse?”

“I came to see my daughter,” he says, clearing his throat. “I thought, I don’t know, if we just had something in common, it’d be easier.”

Peter nods.

“I knew she wouldn’t-- I haven’t been the best dad. I know that.” 

“It’s good that you’re trying,” Peter offers.

Mr. Jones folds over the cuff of his button-down, careful and precise, before looking up at Peter. His eyes scan Peter’s face, closed off. “It’s too late, though. I know that now.”

“No.” Peter shakes his head. “The horse was just too much. Especially because she doesn’t like horses.”

Her dad laughs, a low, quiet sound. “But I like horses.”

“Maybe start with something smaller. Something _she_ likes.”

“I don’t know what she likes,” he says curtly.

Peter senses the embarrassment, something akin to regret in his eyes. “There’s a Korean movie playing at her favorite theater,” he suggests. “You’re going to be in the city for a few days?”

“Yes.” Her dad’s mouth pulls into a chagrined, grateful smile. “Thanks, Peter.”

Peter says, “No problem.”

He doesn’t say, “I just want MJ to be happy.”

Michelle picks a third pepperoni off her pizza and sets it on Peter’s plate.

“You can have some of mine,” he offers, nudging the second box closer to her: extra cheese, peppers and onions.

“I like the olives.”

“Okay.”

“And you like the pepperoni,” she adds. “I’m doing you a service. You’re welcome.”

Peter huffs out a laugh. “Thanks, MJ.”

“Have you ever had Chicago-style?” her dad asks, struggling to fold the thin, soppy crust in half.

“I haven’t,” Peter says. “I grew up in the city.”

“Chicago is a city,” Mr. Jones says. 

“New York City,” Peter needlessly clarifies.

MJ puts her elbow on the table. “Leave him alone.”

“It doesn’t smell as rancid as New York, either.”

“I’d like to visit someday,” Peter says. 

He’s never really thought about Chicago, never thought about walking along Lake Michigan, or visiting the Field Museum, or heading to the top of the Willis Tower for a complete view. The Magnificent Mile, and Lincoln Park, and the Great Fire, and the pizza. But Michelle grew up there, so maybe there’s something to it.

“You should. _Great_ pizza.”

Peter laughs.

Michelle purses her lips. 

“So,” her dad says. “I heard there’s a movie you want to see?”

MJ’s eyes cut to Peter. He takes the three pepperonis she gave him, placing them on his next slice.

“Uh, yeah. Park Chan-wook’s new film is playing at my favorite theater,” she says. 

“I’ve got nothing planned for tomorrow.”

Peter can feel MJ staring at him, so he takes another bite of pizza.

“I don’t know,” she starts. 

“She doesn’t work until four,” Peter says.

Michelle glares at him, and he stares back, eyes wide and pleading. He wants to tell her so much: she doesn’t have to forgive her dad, he might not always have the best approach, but he’s trying, and she should take the olive branch. It might be weak, might break in half, but it doesn’t mean she’s weak or breakable if she accepts it. 

“Are you that busy?” Peter asks. “Because I think Flash is redecorating his room tomorrow. His interior designer is coming over.”

Her eyes narrow and she runs her tongue over her teeth. “Fine.” She looks at her dad. “I think there’s a showing at 10 AM.”

“Excellent.” He takes a bite of pizza. He’s chewing when he says, “Wait, there are subtitles, right?”

“No.”

“What?”

“She’s kidding,” Peter clarifies.

“For all I know, you’re fluent in Korean.”

MJ plucks off another pepperoni. “Passable, at best.”

Peter rubs at his eyes, walking into the kitchen, the smell of coffee warming the apartment. 

“Oh, Peter,” Mr. Jones says, buttoning his coat. 

“What’re you...” Peter starts. He tenses when he notices the blankets folded on the sofa and the suitcase leaning against the wall by the door. “What’re you doing?”

“Well, um.” He clears his throat. “There’s a flight to Miami. A businessman down there is very interested in Cinnamon’s reproductive organs.”

“I’m sure it can wait a day.”

“No, no.” He grabs his scarf, tying it around his neck. “Have to strike while the iron is hot. Vultures are always itching to steal an opportunity from me. They don’t like success.”

“Should I wake MJ?” he asks. 

“Please don’t do that,” Mr. Jones says, quiet and quick, voice wavering. “Just, um, just tell her it was an emergency. She’ll understand.”

Peter hisses out a breath of air, bewildered and betrayed. “I don’t understand.”

“You can take her to the movie. I don’t like to read when I’m watching things, anyway.” He pulls on his scarf, tightening it further around his throat.

“Mr. Jones. All due respect, she doesn’t need me to take her to a movie. She needs to know her father loves her.”

“I do,” he says, hard. “I do love her. I just. I can’t do this.” He grabs his suitcase. “It’s too late. There’s a horse to be sold.”

“At least say goodbye,” Peter tries. 

“I have a flight to catch.” He shakes his head. His eyes are downcast, mouth sullen. He’s making a choice to leave. There’s no pressure in going to the movies. You don’t talk during, and afterwards the movie is an easy way to create impersonal conversation. 

But her dad is scared, and selfish, and bailing. 

Peter clenches his fists by his sides. “Fine.”

“Just, um. Watch out for her, okay?” Mr. Jones asks. 

“She doesn’t need anyone to do that.”

“Okay.” He swallows. “But I’m her father, alright, so just. Watch out for her. For me.”

Peter exhales. “Yeah, okay.”

“Thanks, Pete.”

The door clicks behind Mr. Jones, and Peter locks it, rolling his neck.

Peter paces around the loft and pulls at his hair, letting anger and disappointment swirl in his stomach until he realizes this isn’t about him. 

He pours himself a cup of coffee from the pot Mr. Jones made. It’s decent, but he throws the rest away before brewing a fresh, strong batch. Peter begins making French toast the way Ben would when May had a long work week or was getting over a cold, when her mother passed away or on their anniversary. 

MJ likes her French toast with fresh fruit and a drizzle of ethically-sourced honey, so Peter cuts up a banana, throws out the berries that have gone too soft, speckled with mold, and washes the ones he can save. 

He’s flipping the last piece of toast when MJ shuffles into the kitchen. “Making breakfast?” she asks, grabbing a mug and pouring herself a cup of coffee. “If you’re trying to impress my dad, he prefers pancakes.”

“Hey.” Peter attempts a smile. “And uh, no. He’s… He left.”

MJ slurps her coffee and leans against the counter, perpendicular to Peter and the stove. “Yeah.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“It’s not a big deal.” She shrugs. She picks up a blackberry, popping it into her mouth. 

“I shouldn’t have forced anything. I just didn’t think-- I just cannot believe anyone would be so… so…” Peter groans pressing his spatula into the toast. 

“It’s fine, Peter.”

“It’s not!”

She twists her mouth, eyes swimming with something that isn’t sad or angry. “Thank you for trying. I spent more time with him yesterday than I have in two years. It was good.”

“Maybe you were right. People suck.”

“They do,” she laughs. “And I’m always right.”

“You deserve better,” Peter says.

She says, “Don’t burn breakfast.”

“Shit.” Peter scoops the last piece out of the pan and onto the serving plate.

They sit across from each other at the island. Peter lets MJ take all of the banana, watches her get up after a few bites to dig through a cabinet for slivered almonds. She reads the most absurd headlines from her phone out loud, and Peter snorts, cringe and sighs appropriately. 

She looks up from the news and stabs a banana, but it falls apart when she lifts her fork. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like it’s your fault he left. He leaves. He always leaves.”

“Sorry,” Peter apologizes. “It’s just. I hate it. And you’re so solid, you know? More put together than you should be.”

“Thanks?”

“You’re incredible, MJ. I knew that, but…”

“With a dad like him, I should be a fucking trainwreck?” she asks, setting her fork down. 

“I didn’t mean--”

“I’m a little broken,” she admits, smoothing a hand over her hair until she reaches the bun at the crown of her head. 

“You’re not.”

“I am,” she affirms. “But I’m okay.”

“You’re more than okay,” Peter insists. “You’re resilient. Nobody makes me laugh like you do. You’re so smart. You could do absolutely anything. I’m kind of convinced you could save the world. Totally serious.”

She blinks at him, eyes bright and open. “Keep talking like that and a girl might think you like her.”

“MJ.” Peter flushes, looking down at his plate, maple syrup soaking through the bread and running to the edges. He makes eye contact and clears his throat. “You’re one of my best friends.”

“Likewise, loser,” she says, soft and vulnerable, and it clenches around Peter’s heart. 

He thinks of his own parents, of Ben, of Felicia. It’s not quite the same, but he says, “I’m a little broken, too.”

MJ smiles at him, wrapping her hands around her coffee mug. “You wanna go to a movie? It’s at 10:10.”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “Absolutely.”

He’d watch the goriest, most jump-scare per minute, child-murdering movie for her today if she wanted. He’d feel awful and sick the entire time, but he’d do it if it meant she would feel less lonely or abandoned. If she’d squeeze his hand and laugh at him, eyes crinkling around the edges. 

She takes a sip of coffee, swallows, says, “It’s in Korean. But don’t worry, there are subtitles.”

Peter laughs, tonguing at the corner of his mouth.

“Peter, I really-- I--” MJ starts, voice wobbly. She shakes her head like she thinks better of it, and her words come out stronger and steadier: “Just. Thank you.”

“It’s what friends are for, right?” 

MJ looks up at him through her eyelashes, bites at her bottom lip, and something like longing flickers across her face, but Peter blinks and it’s gone, probably misread in its briefness.

She picks up her fork, sliding the broken banana bits onto it. “Just don’t expect me to make you breakfast any time soon.” 

“I don’t expect anything, MJ,” he says around a laugh.

She was joking, but sometimes Peter wonders if MJ doesn’t think she should put herself out there, if she believes that everyone is going to leave her just like her dad did this morning, that her dad isn’t around because of something she did or said or is.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Peter promises. 

“Except the movies,” she says.

“Right,” Peter agrees, letting her have her weak attempt at levity. 

MJ knows he means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I just want to thank everybody who has read this story thus far, left kudos, and/or left comments. It truly does mean more than I can say. Thank you.
> 
> _New Girl_ episodes used this chapter: 2x06: Halloween, and 2x13: A Father's Love.


	5. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A breath later, in a move of absolute mob mentality and utter betrayal, Ned adds his voice to the chorus. _
> 
> _“Your boyfriend fucking sucks,” MJ says through gritted teeth. _
> 
> _“I know,” Peter rushes. “You wanna just… get this over with?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took longer than expected! Thank you all so much for your kindness, kudos, comments, and patience. 
> 
> Special thanks to [tvfanatic97](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tvfanatic97/pseuds/tvfanatic97) for letting me ramble at her after I spent an entire week trying to decide whether to follow my original outline or an updated one. I'd probably still be waffling between the two without her help.

“Do you think I could get my casserole dish back?” May asks, adjusting some hair underneath her teal, knitted hat. It’s a bit lopsided and loose, but she made it herself. The grin she sported when she told him made Peter shake off any potential criticism. 

He suspects she made one for him, too. Probably around the time she called and asked whether Happy would prefer black yarn or something a bit more adventurous, like forest green. 

(They decided on black.)

“Sure. Um, the apartment might be a little messy,” Peter says. 

Betty and Ned left a pile of blankets on the sofa last night, one trailing off and onto the floor. Peter is supposed to dust but hasn’t gotten around to it yet. It’s MJ’s turn to clean the floors, meaning she’ll do them Monday when everyone else has gone to work. Peter left his pre-gym breakfast dishes in the sink, the dishwasher full but not run. They’d used up all the detergent without realizing. Or, Ned had. He forgot to buy more or inform whoever’s turn it was to do so. Turns out it was Ned’s turn, too. 

It could have been Flash’s, in all fairness. But when MJ’s carefully tested-and-revised-and-retested loft essentials system goes bad and Flash is to blame, he likes to drag out a list, run down on his fingers and not printed anywhere in the apartment, of all the extra expenses he pays out of the goodness of his heart, including half the rent instead of his fair quarter, the electricity bill, wi-fi, and cable. 

Despite it not even being an entire hands worth of expenses, it’s hard to argue that he forgot to pick up dishwashing detergent.

May’s dropped by a few times, but Peter’s always had the chance to tidy up first. He still feels like he has to prove he’s a responsible adult and doesn’t want to risk May’s quiet disappointment. 

She’d never purposefully make him feel bad, and she understands the struggle of trying to keep an apartment clean and organized in the wake of working and life. After Ben passed, the occurrence of fast food and takeout increased exponentially, as did May’s apologies for it, until Peter told her it was okay, and he didn’t mind, and he likes fries. 

But still. 

He wants to make her proud. Always. 

“Oh, Peter. It’s fine,” May says, shoving her hands back in her coat pockets. “I just need the dish back. I promised Happy I’d make this really gross tuna noodle stuff he loves.”

“Just a warning.”

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll stand outside your door for five minutes before I go in. I’ve been practicing checking emails on my phone.” She elbows his side, eyes shining with mirth.

Peter laughs, shaking his head as they take the stairs down to the subway. “No, it’s fine. We had the exterminators by yesterday.”

“What? You didn’t tell-- Peter!” She slaps his arms gently. “Very funny.”

The train is packed, and they stand in the center, holding one of the poles. They’re mostly silent, having already discussed their weeks at brunch: the new receptionist at the office, the daughter of the woman who moved in across the way that May wants to set Peter up with, and the students Peter caught cheating in his lone physics section. 

May leans close, wrinkles her nose and confesses that she doesn’t really like canned tuna. She lived off too much of it in the early years of marriage when she and Ben were more broke than usual. 

But instead of putting it off, riding a few more stops before switching lines and heading to Queens, and breaking the news to Happy that she doesn’t have the dish to bake the casserole in, she gets off the subway with Peter, chatting and asking after Liz. 

“You said she’s working at MJ’s bar?”

“Yeah.” Peter tugs on the velcro of his coat pocket and wraps his fingers around his key-ring. “We’ve finally found something she isn’t great at.”

“Oh, I don’t believe that. She’s a people person.”

“That only takes you so far when you don’t know how to make a gimlet.”

“Well that sounds very complicated,” May says, looking both ways before crossing the street. 

She doesn’t wait for lights. 

When Peter was little, he didn’t understand because May always held his hand firmly and stressed waiting at the crosswalk. Better safe than sorry, she’d say. But the native New Yorker in her never does it herself. 

It’s not about being in a hurry. It’s innate, or learned, imprinted into her until it became natural, much like Peter thinks it is for MJ. They look both ways, and even if there’s a bright orange hand, they cross the street. May and Ben’s teaching stuck though, and unless he’s with May or MJ or a large group all crossing at an intersection, Peter waits. 

“A gimlet has three ingredients,” Peter says.

“You’re a cocktail connoisseur now?” May asks, lilt of surprise.

“MJ’s been helping her study.”

May’s mouth pulls into a small, knowing smile. “Ah.” 

Peter fiddles with his keys, stopping outside to type in the passcode that’ll let them in from the cold, winter air. “I’m not sure Liz is getting any better, but I might be able to steal her job in a few weeks.”

He holds open the door, and May shuffles inside to the little box that serves as an almost lobby. Peter unlocks the door to the complex before following May up the stairs. 

“Is MJ her boss?” May asks, pulling her gloves off. 

“No. But she did vouch for Liz. And it won’t look good if Liz doesn’t learn how to change a keg soon.”

“She’ll get there. She’s smart and persistent. And there are an infinite number of drinks she could be asked to make. That’s a lot to learn, Peter.”

He shakes his head, unlocking the apartment door. “She’s learning it very slowly.”

“Maybe she’s less worried about impressing the teacher than you are.”

Peter tosses his keys onto the counter, watching them slide and hit the toaster. “MJ enlisted me to help make Liz notecards. That’s all.”

“If you say so,” May says around the same smile from earlier. 

Peter sighs, unzipping his coat and hanging it on the hook by the door instead of throwing it onto a chair. “I do. And now I know you’ve been talking to Liz. She has this whole idea--”

“Peter?” MJ asks, emerging from the hallway. Her hair’s thrown haphazardly on top of her head, and she reaches up to pat at it when she notices May. “Oh. Sorry to interrupt.”

“Oh, no. Not at all.” May grins, pulling her hat off her head. “It’s nice to meet you. MJ, right?”

“Yeah.” Her eyes cut to Peter.

He shrugs. “MJ, this is my Aunt May. May, MJ.”

“It’s nice to finally meet you.” May’s coat is unbuttoned, and she shoves her hat into the pocket that doesn’t contain her gloves. “I have a theory that Peter’s been keeping us apart because he knows I’m going to like you more than him.”

MJ laughs. It sounds genuine enough, but Peter can hear the uncomfortable strain in it. “About Thanksgiving, I--”

“No need to apologize,” May says. “The bar needs someone. Especially on holidays.”

MJ nods. “Yeah. People are extra generous, too.”

Peter opens the wrong cabinet before finding the casserole dish he and Ned took home from Thanksgiving dinner. He pulls it down, the lid sliding, but he catches it with his palm. 

May smiles brightly. “I’m sure they are.”

Peter holds out the dish, says, “Here you go.”

May glances at him before turning back to MJ and tugging off her coat. “See? He’s already trying to kick me out.”

“I’m not.”

“Unless I’m keeping you?” she asks Michelle. 

MJ clears her throat. “No. Do you want anything? Water, coffee, tea, orange juice, beer? No, it’s too early for that.” She pulls open the fridge, toeing at the bottom of her sweatpants like she’s trying to pull them more solidly over her ankles. “I think Ned has grapefruit juice?”

Peter tilts his head. She just offered his aunt beer before noon. 

MJ’s _nervous_. 

“Water’s fine.”

“Great.” MJ pulls out the Brita. 

She asks May if she wants ice or not before filling a glass and offering crackers, chips, and a bagel.

It’s weird, and Peter cocks an eyebrow in question. MJ glares at him, and he has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. 

As they make their way to the sofa, May with a glass of water, MJ with coffee, and Peter with nothing, MJ leans close, hissing, “I haven’t showered in two days.”

Peter sniffs. “Smells like three.”

MJ elbows him in the side.

May asks how Liz is doing at the bar, and MJ is kinder about it than Peter. She asks about the novel MJ’s writing and her website, about her Christmas plans -- MJ has an early morning flight on the 22nd, booked by her mother. It’s a mild course correction of the red-eye scheduled the year before, and Peter knows Michelle will find a way to miss it. 

MJ relaxes, shoulders dropping. May laughs at her jokes, and MJ returns May’s curiosity, asking about brunch, May’s work at the doctor’s office, and the cheesy potatoes originally brought home in the casserole dish. 

“I should’ve made the boys bring you a plate,” May says.

“That wouldn’t have been necessary,” MJ assures. 

“Next time,” May promises, eyes soft and kind. 

MJ presses her lips into a thin, tight smile. “Thanks. I have to get ready for work. But it was really nice to meet you, Ms. Parker.”

“May,” May reminds her. 

When MJ leaves, May refocuses on Peter. “I can see why you wanted to keep her for yourself.”

“May,” Peter warns. “Liz doesn't know what she’s talking about.”

“Maybe not when it comes to making a gimlet, but she’s a people person, Peter.” May eyes him seriously. “You adore her.”

She’s not talking about Liz.

“She’s my friend.”

“She adores you, too, you know.”

Peter sighs. “We’re friends, May.”

She scoots closer and squeezes Peter’s arm. “Sweetheart.”

“I’m not,” he starts, frustration already swelling in his stomach. He’s a terrible liar. “She means too much to me. I’m not going to risk it.”

“Peter, I have to be honest with you. And it’s going to sound silly. But there are multiple people out there for you. I’m sure you’ll find someone, and you’ll get everything you want.”

She blinks, wiping underneath her eyes. 

“May?” Peter frowns.

“You might fall in love with Linda’s daughter, which would be great for family get-togethers.” Half her mouth lifts up in a shaky smile, voice watery. “Or you might meet someone else next week. But I don't want fear holding you back. I don’t want you to by lying in bed next to your wife or husband and wondering if life would be better or worse if the person next to you was MJ.”

“That’s not--”

“You can lose something important by risking it. But you can also lose something important by refusing to grow with it.”

“We’re friends,” Peter repeats, a broken record. 

“I know, honey.” May pulls him into a hug, squeezing tight. 

She sits back, wiping at her eyes more purposefully. “You’ve been so reckless, Peter. Falling in love headfirst since Sarah. But don’t go too far in the other direction, either. Love should be a little bit scary.”

Peter nods.

He hasn’t gone too far in the other direction. He knows that. He was honest with Carlie, and he took the leap with Johnny. He has rejection to show for both those decisions, but he doesn’t regret either. He put himself out there, and it hurt, but he knows he did the right thing. 

MJ is different. 

She’s not Carlie, and she’s not Johnny. 

She’s his friend, his very good, best friend-tier friend. And he loves her. 

He’s attracted to her, but he can’t take that facet of their connection and risk the love he has for her for the possibility that they’ll fall in love. The possibility that Michelle doesn’t want to take the leap, too. The possibility that he’ll ruin it, that they’ll fall in love only to fall out of it. 

Peter can’t. 

He won’t.

“What if you went back to the elf costume?” Ned asks. 

Flash fiddles with the Santa hat in his hands. “No. And you already shamed me into not going as a shepherd. _Again_. This is the last year of amnesty.”

“Amnesty?” MJ asks flatly.

“You’re depriving the people of my true potential.”

She scoffs. “Saving them from a lifetime of nightmares.”

“You guys just can’t handle me.”

“Don’t want to,” MJ says. 

“Can’t. And it’s not my fault there are a limited number of sexy Christmas personas.”

“Sexy Christmas personas? Are you kidding?” MJ asks. “Jar.”

“That’s not a jar offense!” Flash protests, looking toward Peter and Ned as he pulls a bit of fluff from the ball at the tip of his hat. 

Peter scrunches his nose, grimacing. “I don’t know.”

Ned tilts his head. “This conversation happening at all is a jar offense.”

“I think we risk getting into territory where everything Flash says is a jar-worthy offense,” Peter offers. 

Flash glares at him. “Shut up, Penis.”

“I think I’m on your side.”

“Jar,” MJ says to Peter. 

“You can’t douchebag jar me for agreeing with Flash,” Peter says.

“Try me.”

“MJ, come on.”

She narrows her eyes. “Dressing up as a sexy snowflake is absolutely asshole behavior.”

“I’ve never done that,” Flash says, but it sounds like he’s making a mental note.

Maybe sexy snowflake is better than sexy shepherd. Peter doesn’t know, and it will never get easier knowing that at some point he probably will be sure of the answer.

MJ blinks. “Four years ago.”

“I was sexy Jack Frost.”

“Implying Jack Frost isn’t already sexy, Eugene? Jar.” She points at the half-full mason jar, the crumpled dollars and some coins in the bottom from when Ned and Peter negotiated turning on the television even though she was already reading on the sofa. 

“Maybe refusing to accept other people’s opinions makes _you_ the douchebag?”

“Jar.”

“I know you hate Christmas, MJ,” Ned says softly. “But maybe you could just let this one go? Like, in the spirit of the holiday.”

“It’s the 21st.”

There’s a knock on the door, and Peter gets up to answer while Ned tries to mediate. MJ had a hard week at work trying to cover for Liz’s mishaps, has fielded multiple calls from her mother reminding her of her flight information, and the same pine candle from last year has burnt out in her room. 

She hates Christmas, and Peter doesn’t push it, but he thinks there’s a kernel inside her that wants to love it. Which probably makes her hate it even more. 

“Thank god,” Peter says as he opens the door, wrapping Liz in a hug. 

She has blue and silver glitter on her face and sparkly snowflake clips in her hair. She smiles, a radiant, blinding thing. “Miss me that much?”

“I’m worried that if we don’t leave soon, we’ll have done irreparable damage to our relationships.”

“Okay,” Liz laughs. 

The relief is short-lived, because Flash gets one look at her and asks, “Are you Jack Frost?”

“Jackie,” she corrects, brushing some hair over her shoulder.

Flash takes the opportunity to opine about how Liz dressed up for the party, and Michelle would never say _she’s_ an asshole for it. There’s eye rolling, and commentary about camp and over-sexualization until Liz decides that Flash’s outfit is extremely tacky, but MJ has no room to talk in her old jeans and baggy red sweater, a coffee stain on the right sleeve. 

It’s the same Christmas party as last year. Same terrible karaoke, same assortment of sugar cookies in wreath and tree designs, same eggnog in both alcoholic and nonalcoholic varieties. 

Peter grabs a glass of the sober stuff and makes small talk with someone wearing blinking Christmas lights around their neck until Ned picks up a cookie and saves him from a conversation about toy sales projections.

Ned traps Peter in a conversation about _Star Wars_, instead. 

“Life Day is not Christmas,” Ned says.

“But it’s pretty close,” Peter insists. They’re too far from the karaoke to hear it, but the version of “Jingle Bells” playing over the speakers sounds just grating enough to compete. “The Wookiees give each other presents.”

“It’s not even canon.”

“George Lucas did write it.” Peter sips his eggnog, letting it coat his tongue. 

Ned says, “Yeah, but it was a holiday special.” 

Peter mumbles, “Maybe MJ hates Christmas because it puts everyone on edge.”

Ned says, “And everybody agrees the special was bad!”

Peter finishes his eggnog, ready to delve into the spiked kind, temples pulsing with the threat of a headache.

He looks toward the table.

Freezes. 

Johnny.

Johnny Storm is here.

Peter looks down at the plastic cup in his hands, viscous dregs of eggnog still coating one side. He feels shaky and lightheaded. Uncomfortable. A pain he was meant to have moved on from washes over him. 

“Peter, you okay? I mean, I’m just saying Jesus doesn’t exist in Star Wars. There’s no way they celebrate Christmas.”

“I’m fine.” He swallows. “I just need more eggnog.”

“Get me some?” Ned asks. 

“Yeah, sure.” He clears his throat, looks up again, and not seeing Johnny in his previous spot, feels panic surge through him. “Actually, I’m feeling tired.”

Ned frowns. “You sure you’re okay, Peter?”

“Yeah, I just. I’m going to find MJ, maybe head out.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” Ned asks. “Oh, hey, Johnny.”

“Hey, Ned. Good to see you.”

Peter shifts, allowing Johnny to get in on their little triangle. He clenches his cup, causing the sides to cave in, and nods, mouth pressed into a flat, forced smile. 

“You know Sadie and Melissa?” Ned asks. 

“Yeah, Sadie and I went to med school together.”

“Flash and Sadie’s families are close,” Ned offers. “Actually, Flash is pretty popular with lesbians. That’s weird, right? You’d think if there’s any group of people he’d be most likely to piss off, it’d be them.” 

“Yeah, but he’s harmless,” Johnny says before turning to Peter. “Do you think we could talk?”

Peter says, “No,” grimaces, and corrects, “Sorry, um, I just mean that I don’t think Ned would be comfortable with us talking alone.”

“What?” Ned asks, eyebrows furrowing.

“Seeing as he’s my-- my boyfriend.”

“What?” Ned mumbles, staring at Peter like he’s lost his marbles.

Maybe he has, but Peter hasn’t even been on a date since Johnny dumped him, and it feels too vulnerable to admit. Especially when he imagines Johnny leaving him at that haunted house to go fuck someone else. “And you’re like my ex-not-boyfriend, so...” he finishes, words trailing off. 

Johnny’s eyes widen, brows lifting up toward his hairline. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Johnny looks between them, and Peter feels stupid and stuck, back rigid.

Ned has more sense, throwing his arm around Peter’s shoulder. “Yep, fell in love with this dude, you know? Just didn’t realize it until we were both single a few weeks ago.”

Ned squeezes Peter’s shoulder, and Peter snakes an arm around his waist. “Never been happier.”

“And Peter’s like, really good at like, being a boyfriend,” Ned adds. “We cuddle all day watching _Star Trek_.” He swallows. “We kiss, too. You know, man. Boyfriend stuff.”

Johnny looks confused, but he shakes it away. “Actually, yeah, I guess, I always thought that if there was anything more between Peter and one of his roommates, it’d be you.”

“Aw, really?” Ned asks, genuinely touched, pulling Peter closer and leaning his head against Peter’s shoulder. 

“Yeah.” Johnny’s eyebrows are still pinched together, mouth twisted and tight. He sighs. “Well, I’m, uh, really happy for you guys. I’ll see you around, I guess?”

Ned says, “Definitely!”

Peter says, “Sure.”

Johnny exhales audibly, shaking his head as he walks away.

It’s a good walk.

Ned whacks Peter gently with the arm that was around him before moving to stare at Peter straight on. “Dude! What the hell?”

“I’m sorry.” Peter scrubs a hand over his face. “I wasn’t prepared.”

“I mean, we would be the cutest couple, you know, if Betty wasn’t my fiance.”

Peter laughs. “Yeah, we would be.”

“You don’t think she’ll be pissed, do you?”

“Probably not.”

“Good,” Ned says. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You want to go home?”

Peter scrunches up his face, feeling awful, but he does. “Yeah.”

“I’ll help round everyone up,” Ned says, not missing a beat. 

“Thanks, man.”

Peter stops by the refreshment table to down a shot of alcoholic eggnog before searching the party. He finds Flash and Liz slow dancing to a passable karaoke version of “I’ll Be Home For Christmas.”

He taps Liz on the shoulder. “I think I’m going to head home.”

Liz drops her arms from around Flash’s neck, concern in her eyes immediate, hand warm and reassuring on Peter’s arm. “What happened?” she asks, voice low and gentle. 

Shit. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Flash adds.

Peter thought he was holding it together. “Johnny’s here, and I just-- I think Sadie’s Christmas party is cursed.”

Liz frowns, squeezing his arm before grabbing his hand. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“No, you guys are having fun.”

“I’m dancing with Flash,” Liz says.

Flash says, “Hey!”

She shoots him a pointed look. “You’re dancing with me.”

“You’re super hot, Liz.”

She rolls her eyes. “Stay if you want.”

“I’ll come with. I was just saying.”

They shoulder their way through the crowd toward the room where all their coats were deposited, the front closet packed full by the time they arrived. Peter shoves his own jacket on, grabbing MJ’s as Flash pulls Ned’s from the pile. 

“Code red,” Ned says, bursting in. 

“What?” Liz asks. 

“Johnny knows.”

“Knows what?” Flash asks, shaking Ned’s coat until he takes it. 

“I know you’re not dating Ned,” Johnny says from the door. 

Ned grimaces. “Sorry! Betty called me, and I was like, ‘Hi Fiance,’ and Johnny was _right there_. And he was like, ‘Wow, congratulations. I didn’t realize you were engaged.’ And I was like, ‘Yeah, I proposed to Betty last week.’ And he was all,” Ned pauses, widening his eyes. “And I was all, ‘Oops.’”

Peter swallows. “We’re leaving now, so if you'll excuse me, I have to find MJ.”

“Peter, please just give me a second,” Johnny says.

“No, it’s fine. I’m doing fine, and Ned might not be my boyfriend, but I’m good. You don’t have to feel bad about not wanting to date me.”

“But I do.”

“You what?”

“I want to date you.”

Peter blinks. “No,” he starts, words slow. “You don’t. You’re not a relationship person. Monogamy isn’t natural. I’ve heard the speech.”

“I thought that, but I was still recovering from my last breakup, and I really, really like you, Peter. I saw that you all RSVPed to Sadie’s party, so I got the first half of my shift covered hoping I could talk to you.”

Flash, Ned and Liz aww. 

Peter sighs, disgruntled and hurt and angry. “You think you want that. But you don’t. You just want what we had, and I can’t do it.”

“That’s not what I want,” Johnny says, eyes wide and soulful. “I miss kissing you, yeah, but I miss your awful T-shirts and even worse sense of humor, too. I miss _you_.”

He sounds genuine. 

“I want to believe you,” Peter says.

Johnny’s mouth flirts with a small smile.

“But I can’t. I’m sorry. Fool me once, you know? I’m always giving people more chances, and they rarely ever deserve them.”

“But sometimes they do?” Johnny asks softly, head ducked to look Peter in the eye. 

“I’m sorry. No. I have to go.” He pushes MJ’s coat more firmly into the crook of his elbow so it doesn’t fall to the ground. 

“Okay. At least I tried. Merry Christmas, Peter.”

There’s an awkward beat where they both try to leave the room at the same time, shoulders bumping. They disperse pretty quickly after, the group finding Michelle discussing periods with Sadie, Melissa and some of their friends in the kitchen. 

“Oh, thank god,” she says, pulling her coat from where it dangles over Peter’s arm. She leans in, whispering, “We were getting really close to period sex territory. Live and let live, but I see them three times a year -- at most -- and we’re not close enough for that.”

Peter smiles, a breath of air escaping his mouth like a laugh, but MJ’s eyes narrow as she slips her arms through her coat. 

She doesn’t say anything.

They leave the party with hurried thanks to Sadie and Melissa, and as they walk a few blocks to the subway station, snow drifts sideways from the sky, blowing in the wind. 

“You should have let me drive,” Flash says. 

Traffic is awful, cars bumper-to-bumper next to them.

“We wouldn’t have even made it to the party,” MJ says. 

“Maybe that would have been better,” Liz offers. 

Peter can feel her staring at him, but he looks at the ground, the snow sticking but turning to graying, squelching mush underneath the endless trail of feet. His hands are shoved into his pockets, and he plays with the gloves he never bothered putting on. He feels the cold down to the bone. 

Peter sits on the train, sensing MJ’s glances. But she’s more subtle than Liz, who links her arm through Peter’s and holds his hand. She tells him it’s freezing.

“Do you want cocoa?” Liz asks as they step onto the platform, gloved hand back in Peter’s.

“No, Liz. I’m fine.” He offers a smile. “Promise.”

“I want cocoa.”

Peter laughs, “Okay. Sounds good.”

When they get back to the loft, he goes to change out of the too stiff jeans and bulky, ugly sweater, Rudolph’s noise a sparkly pom-pom on his chest. He hears the knock, flat and quick. 

“Hey.”

“Can I come in?” MJ asks.

“Sure.” Peter answers, grabbing a hoodie. 

MJ enters, closing the door behind her and sitting on the edge of his unmade bed. “Ned says you told Johnny he was your boyfriend.”

“He bought it for a second.” Peter zips the sweatshirt up to his chin, resting a hand on his desk so he can pull off his damps socks. 

MJ smirks. “I would have, too.”

“Feels natural, right?”

“It does.” 

Peter balances his socks over the back of the desk chair to air out. It feels more responsible than letting them stink up his hamper. He pulls out a new pair, wondering if May will knit some wool socks to go with the hat she’ll gift him. 

MJ is quiet.

Instead of making him feel tense, or guilty for cutting a fun night short, it’s comfortable. Nice. She’s wearing purple, fuzzy socks, red sweater with the coffee stain pushed up to her elbows. She leans back and toes at a foam styrofoam ball that fell off his desk when he was putting together molecular compound models. 

“He said he wants to get back together,” Peter explains.

MJ hums.

Peter flops down next to her, arms brushing. “He said he misses me.”

“And you don’t believe him?” she asks. 

“He sounded sincere, but you know.”

“I don’t know,” she says, kicking the ball away. “You seem pretty miss-able to me.”

Peter looks at her. The curve of her ear, the tip of her nose, the curl of her eyelashes, until she turns her head and makes eye contact. 

“Aren’t you always saying people suck?”

“They do suck,” MJ affirms.

“That’s what I thought.” Peter fiddles with the zipper, sighing. “And it’d be really stupid of me to let Johnny hurt me again. So I’m trying something different.”

“But if he was being honest, and he really does miss you and want the kind of relationship you want, you’d want it?” MJ scans Peter’s face. “With him?

Peter swallows. “I guess.”

MJ nods, eyes focused and warm. “Then maybe you should give it a shot, Peter. Not trying isn’t like you.”

“You don’t think it’s stupid? This kind of thing doesn’t happen. People don’t change.” He brushes Michelle’s hand with his pinkie, thinking about her dad. He tried so hard to convince her things could be different, and in the end, he’d hoped only to be met with disappointment. “It’s a fantasy. People don’t come back.”

“I think,” MJ says, quiet, looking up at him through her eyelashes as she places her hand over his. “You’re the kind of guy a person would come back for.”

Something goes gooey inside Peter’s chest. The hopeless romantic in his heart splitting itself open. 

MJ’s eyes are misty, and her smile is small, and Peter flips his hands so he can squeeze hers.

Flash offers to drive Peter to the hospital, and everyone else piles into the car, too. 

Ned and Liz sing along to the radio, and Peter taps his hand on his thigh. He stares at the snow settling on the window before melting against the glass, sliding down in oval droplets and leaving wet streaks. 

He feels MJ’s arm pressed against his through the bulk of their coats. 

His stomach knots, and he bites the inside of his cheek. 

The cacophony of cars honking, a siren in the distance, and Liz’s voice cracking on a high note keep Peter’s brain from forming any solitary, solid thought. 

He just knows he changed his mind. 

He does want to try with Johnny. He wants to believe that it’s almost Christmas and people are honest. It’s the season of giving and good intentions.

Peter has to believe that growth is possible, and not just for himself. He wants to believe that he could change his mind tonight, and that the Johnny who didn’t want any attachments changed his, too. 

Flash is a good driver, angling into a tight parking spot near a door. His car has technology to help him along, but it’s Christmas, and Peter offers up the compliment without clarification or reservation. 

“I did it for Johnny,” Flash says, the car beeping once when he presses the remote lock. 

Peter nods, leading the way. 

Despite having visited Johnny once before, they enter the hospital at a different door, and Peter gets turned around, heart hammering in his chest, a nervous-excitement that he likes. It makes him think of running through an airport and standing up when the priest asks if anyone has a reason the two should not be wed. Dramatic and romantic. 

MJ finds an open elevator after the first one is locked.

The same receptionist from last time sits at the same desk and informs Peter of the same fact: visiting hours are over.

“Okay,” he says. 

Ned says, “No, it’s not okay.”

“It’s probably a sign.”

Liz furrows her eyebrows. “We knew visiting hours would be over when we left, didn’t we?”

“I don’t know.” Peter frowns. 

Logically, yes, he knew. But it feels like a blow, and he doesn’t know if he has the wherewithal to cause a scene only to be rejected. He doesn’t think this receptionist, in her cute salmon scrubs, deserves to deal with him while she catches up on paperwork. 

It’s Christmas, and it goes both ways. 

“Do you even know who I am?” Flash asks.

MJ says, “Jar.”

“Sorry.” Liz jumps in, smile contrite. “But Dr. Storm would really like to see us.”

The receptionist blinks, face unchanging. “You can come back during regular visiting hours.”

“It’s okay, guys,” Peter assures, turning to look at them. “We tried.”

MJ bites at the corner of her mouth, pushing forward so she’s leaning against the desk. “I know you’re just doing your job. But my friend here,” she says, pointing a thumb over her shoulder at Peter, “deserves this. It’s Christmas, and if anyone has earned one of those Christmas miracle things, it’s him.”

“Miss, I’m sorry, but--”

“There are a lot of children sleeping on this floor, and I won’t hesitate to wake them up by caroling.”

“Miss, please,” the receptionist says, wary. 

MJ stares at her for a long beat, mouth set.

“I guess it’s just not meant to be,” Peter decides. 

Except MJ starts singing. The opening phrase of “Joy to the World” echoes loudly, sounding pretty decent. She hesitates, words slow with no real melody until Ned joins in, backing her up and adding a real sense of gravitas and purpose.

Liz smiles at Peter before singing along, elbowing Flash so he’ll add his voice to the chorus.

Peter feels buoyed by their efforts, embarrassed but joyful -- how apropos -- and follows along, singing with these people who love him enough to probably get kicked out of a hospital. It’s stupid, but wonderful. 

And even if Johnny is nowhere to be found, this friendship and love that weaves itself around Peter’s heart, perfect in its off-key sound, makes this senseless trip worth it. He’s found people who will leave their apartment in the middle of the night to help him find love.

But he already has it. 

Doors start opening, kids and parents wandering out to take a look at the commotion, goofy, happy grins on their faces. Toddlers wiggle around as they attempt to dance, and kids clap off-rhythm because nobody singing is in sync, either. 

And then a door opens down the hallway, just past the receptionist desk, and Johnny sticks his head out. 

Peter stops singing, heat pouring itself into his cheeks. 

Johnny’s appearance, handsome, widening eyes and wrinkled brow, spurs everybody else on, their singing more forceful: _repeat the sounding joy! Repeat the sounding joy!_

And MJ: _I don’t know the words! I don’t know the words!_

Johnny approaches slowly, face frozen in confusion, mouth not bothering to tip up into a smile, but eyes going bright with curiosity and, Peter hopes, hope. 

“You came back?” Johnny asks. 

The song trails off, Flash’s voice trickling to a halt as Peter takes a breath and squares his shoulders. 

“I’m scared,” he says honestly. “But I like you. And I know you took a risk earlier, and I hope you know that I’m taking one now.”

Peter exhales, glancing left and right at the people flanking him, the people who are going to be there whether this works out or veers sideways.

Johnny smiles, steps forward and kisses Peter, firm and solid and sure. “I know you don’t believe me, but I mean it. I’m going to prove it to you, I promise.”

“I believe you,” Peter says, leaning forward to kiss Johnny again. 

People applaud, and Peter laughs against Johnny’s mouth, feeling like his romantic comedy dreams have come true, the blush reasserting itself on his face.

*

Liz splays her fingers across the bar, lips pressed together as she thinks. “Fill a highball glass with ice. Add grenadine, then tequila,” she says, pausing to gauge Peter’s reaction, but he’s been a teacher long enough not to crack. “Then, add sparkling-- No!” Her eyes widen. “Orange juice, then orange sparkling water, top with an orange slice and maraschino cherry?”

“There’s not actually a universally agreed upon recipe for a tequila sunset,” Peter says. 

“Peter.” Liz blinks at him, eyes going all doe-y. “The recipe MJ’s been testing me on?”

Peter grins. “You got that right.” 

“I think I’m finally starting to get the hang of this!”

“Only took you four months.”

“Hey!” She swipes at him across the bar, fingertips brushing by his elbow as he leans back. “I’m sorry that this place looks dingy but expects me to know every weird cocktail ever invented. Just order a vodka lemonade and leave me alone.”

Peter laughs. “MJ always makes me something fancy.”

“I could explain the Israeli-Palestine conflict, or tell you about current US trade policy, or list every crush you’ve ever had in alphabetical or chronological order. But those skills aren’t particularly useful here.”

“Are you looking for another job?” Peter asks. 

“The modeling experience doesn’t seem to inspire confidence in the hiring directors of the types of jobs I’m looking for.”

A woman places two empty glasses on the bar before walking away, and a man shoulders into her spot, elbow resting on the wood and taking up too much space. 

Peter nods sympathetically. “Flash might be able to help with that?”

“He’s offered, but I don’t know. Feels weird.”

“Yeah, I get that. But if it was me, what would say?”

Liz sighs, elbow on the bar, cheek in palm. “Networking.”

A woman walks up, settling two feet away and tapping her credit card against the bar. 

“Exactly.” Peter slurps the last of his vodka lemonade. Slightly too much vodka for his taste, which either means Liz over-poured and is costing the bar money, or MJ makes his cocktails weaker because she knows he’d rather taste sugar than cleaner. A fifty-fifty tossup. 

“You want another?” Liz asks. 

Peter looks to his right and left. “I think you have some other customers, Liz.”

“Right!” She sports an apologetic smile, sliding to the customer who arrived at the bar second, and Peter shakes his head fondly. 

MJ makes it look easy, holding a conversation and spotting other patrons, being friendly enough without it feeling schoomzy. She still has a customer service voice, and it’s always ripe for mocking when the bar is empty and she leans into it with one of the only other customers. 

She rolls her eyes and takes the jokes in stride. Except for the time she drenched Flash with water from the soda gun, but that just made Peter and Ned laugh more, tears leaking out of their eyes as Flash guffawed and peeled his shirt away from his skin.

He had shrieked, “This is Saint Laurent!”

It was pretty great.

Peter spots MJ across the bar, sliding a glass of beer to a man with tightly coiled curls. He’s handsome, seems to thank MJ with a smile. She nods back. 

Liz nods as she talks to a customer, wiping at a spill on the counter with a bunch of napkins. 

Peter uses his straw to swirl the ice cubes in his glass before bringing it to his mouth to try and drink some of the melt. 

MJ’s still talking to the man from earlier, leaning slightly against the bar. She pauses the conversation to make a couple of drinks when a woman approaches. When Michelle’s done, the man’s mouth moves, and she turns her head to look at him, responding.

Peter feels prickly. 

He knows she doesn’t need help, leaning forward again as the conversation continues. But his glass is empty, and Liz has her mouth flat in concentration as she measures tequila into a highball.

Peter’s first drink was too strong, so he slips off the stool, glass in hand, and makes his way around the bar.

MJ glances at him, humming as the guy finishes speaking before turning toward Peter. “What’d she mess up?”

“Nothing.”

She shoots him a look that tells him to cut the bullshit. 

“Too much vodka; too little lemonade,” he admits. “But that’s probably what most people want.”

MJ snorts. “True. She’s getting better.”

“Yeah. She knew the difference between a tequila sunrise and sunset.”

MJ nods, grabbing his glass and stashing it in one of the bins below the bar before pulling out a cocktail shaker. Her movements are quick and practiced, no hesitation as she adds ingredients and a small scoop of ice. “The only reason it’s taken her this long is because she doesn’t care.”

“I know.” Peter glances at the man she had been talking to as he sips his beer, taking in the exchange. “I think she’s close to letting Flash give her a hand.”

“Gross,” MJ says, adding crushed ice to a glass before straining the mixture over the shards. “But good for her. Honestly, Flash likes to buy people’s love and affection.”

“Liz actually likes him.” 

“Which makes it even better.” A beat. “Besides, Jonah is still giving me shit for telling him to hire her. He’s only kept her around this long because she’s pretty.”

Peter cringes. “Oh.”

MJ mimics him. “Yeah.”

She turns around to grab something else, and the man from earlier says, “Hi. I’m Dalton.”

Peter presses his mouth together. “Peter.”

Dalton holds out his hand, and Peter shakes it. “You know MJ?”

“Yeah. We’re friends.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

Dalton clears his throat. “She makes a mean drink, huh?”

“Got that from your beer?” Peter asks.

He laughs, good-natured. “I gave up hard liquor when my ex got sober, haven’t really thought about going back to it.”

“Oh.” Peter nods, feeling a bit awful. “But yeah, MJ’s the best.”

“I am,” Michelle says, returning to pour creme de mure over Peter’s drink. She looks at Dalton. “I keep Peter around to talk me up and get me better tips.”

“You can probably get rid of him, then. I think you’ve got it covered.”

MJ laughs, a light, amused sound, scooping some blackberries into Peter’s glass before finishing with a slice of lemon. “Duly noted.”

Peter sips his drink with she slides it to him. 

It’s delicious. 

“Thanks, Em,” he says.

“No problem, loser.”

Before Peter can retreat and leave MJ to flirt with Dalton, she gets pulled away by Jonah to help a bachelorette party decide on a signature cocktail -- or, _cock_tail. That’s how the short blonde woman says it, emphasis and all. 

“I don’t know why I came here,” Dalton says.

It takes Peter a moment to realize that Dalton is talking to him.

“For a beer?” Peter offers.

He smiles. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“You want to try mine?”

“No.” Dalton shakes his head.

Peter eyes him, knowing he should steer the conversation back to Michelle. Tell him about how funny she is, how she’s querying for a literary agent, and how she’s never served him the same drink twice and yet never given him something he doesn’t like. 

The problem is Peter has never been a really great wingman. He tries, honest, but he doesn’t quite know what anybody wants to hear, especially not a person named Dalton who still isn’t drinking hard liquor after breaking up with an ex. 

“How long since you’ve been with your ex?” Peter asks. 

“Eight months.” Dalton presses his mouth together and exhales loudly through his nose.

“That’s a long time.”

“It is.”

Peter sips his drink. “MJ likes beer.”

Dalton chuckles, tapping his fingers against the bar. “Good to know.”

“She also likes martinis.” 

“Never really been my drink.”

“She likes them dirty.”

Dalton laughs. “Also good to know.”

Peter’s eyes widen, and he feels himself flush. “I just meant she likes olives. I didn’t mean to imply anything or--”

“I got it.” Dalton smiles, amused.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s good. Says a lot about her.”

Peter furrows his eyebrows, unsure what Dalton means. 

“I don’t even know why I’m here,” he admits, leaning his elbow on the bar and turning to look at Peter more directly. “Haven’t been out drinking in ten months.”

“Why not?” Peter asks. 

“My ex, Cheri. She stopped drinking, and we stopped going out. I don’t know why it’s taken me eight months to get here. I thought I was missing out, and then I had no desire to confirm it.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I think I knew the answer wouldn’t be what I wanted.”

“Makes sense.” Peter swallows. “You miss her?”

“Every day.”

“Right.”

Peter glances in the direction MJ went, knowing she probably isn’t even looking for a long-term partner. 

He knows she does want that -- something that stuck with him after Harry came back into her life, leaving as swiftly as he reinserted himself -- but he doesn’t know if she’d consider it with Dalton. 

He can hear her indignation: “Marry someone named Dalton? What, would we name our kids Quigley and Primrose?”

“Do you think I should call her?” Dalton asks. 

“MJ should be back in a few minutes,” Peter says. 

He purses his lips, and Peter realizes Dalton wasn’t talking about MJ. 

“If you want to call Cheri, I think you should,” he says, sincere. 

Even if MJ’s simply looking for a one-night stand or someone to stretch her flirting skills with for the evening, it doesn’t seem fair to make that person Dalton. Peter thinks MJ deserves someone who isn’t thinking about someone else, and whether Dalton needs a second chance or a chance to move on, he shouldn’t involve MJ in it. 

It’s not Peter’s choice to make, and he knows that. 

But this is Dalton’s.

“I do.” Dalton reaches into his wallet, pulls out a five, and sets it underneath his half-empty beer glass. “Make sure MJ gets that. And tell her _Persuasion_ is better than _Pride and Prejudice_.”

“I will,” Peter says, referring to the tip. He doesn’t make a habit of defending literary opinions that aren’t his own, especially to MJ, who can pick apart an argument better than anyone sans Liz. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” Dalton breathes out heavily, swiveling toward coat check. 

Peter turns back toward the bar, shifting on the balls of his feet before taking in Dalton’s empty stool. He steals it, allowing his feet to rest against the bottom rungs. Staring at his glass, he swirls the pinky-purple creme de mure that’s settle at the bottom. 

“Where’d he go?” MJ asks, approaching the bar. “Scared away by your terrible attempts at humor?”

Peter would laugh or fake offense, but all he can do is look up at her, frowning and guilty.

Michelle probably figures Dalton went to the bathroom, but then she catches sight of the five underneath his beer. 

“He went to call his ex-girlfriend,” Peter confesses.

MJ clenches her jaw. “Of course he did.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?” she asks, a little too sharp, eyes narrowing. 

“We were talking, you know? And he missed her, and so I told him that if he wanted to…”

MJ shakes her head and exhales a humorless laugh. “You were supposed to be my wingman, right? Not his exes?”

Peter nods. 

She tuts, messing with the little bins of fruit in front of her. MJ takes out a cherry and pops the head off the stem. “You wanna know what the bachelorettes are going to get wasted on next Saturday?”

“What?” Peter asks. 

“Cran-apple martinis.”

Peter nods. “Is that--?”

“Boring? Yeah. But when you’re from Jersey and have watched too much _Sex and the City_, it seems alluring.”

“I’m sure they’re delicious.”

“They are,” MJ agrees. “You want one?”

Peter slurps at whatever it is she made him earlier. 

She smiles a tight, small curve. “You don’t have to finish that first, dork.”

“Okay, but you have to make one for yourself, too.” He catches her eye roll. “Come on. On me.”

“Obviously,” Michelle says. She doesn’t smile, but Peter can see the remains lingering at the edges of her mouth. She picks up Dalton’s glass, setting it underneath the bar and snatching the five. “I’d use this, but I spent a good thirty minutes flirting to earn it.”

“You weren’t flirting for the money,” Peter says.

“No.” She does smile now, a small uptick on her lips, eyes a little dim. “I wasn’t.”

Peter looks around the bar. It’s not a large crowd, but the place isn’t empty, either. A balding man in a suit jacket sits a few feet away, a customer with blonde hair and chiseled jaw laughs at something Liz says, and a group of men huddle in a booth. “I can try to find someone else? I mean, you’re a catch!”

MJ pulls out two martini glasses. “No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, a cute boy is already buying me a drink.”

Peter watches her scoop ice into a shaker, something almost sad pinching in his stomach. But MJ doesn’t seem too distressed about Dalton leaving, so Peter tries not to feel like he ruined something for her. If he focuses on feeling guilty, he’ll actually annoy her, making everything worse. 

His reaction is delayed, looking left and right dramatically. “I don’t see any cute boys?”

“Who were you planning on setting me up with, then?” 

“You might be into ugly guys,” Peter says.

MJ snorts.

“I did meet Harry.”

“Peter,” MJ says, stern, watching him through wide, warning eyes. She carefully fits the lid, shaking with two hands. “It’s what’s inside that counts.”

Harry seemed pretty ugly on the inside, too, if you ask him. But he didn’t know Harry that well, and Peter sees the opportunity, so he takes it: “All I’m hearing is that you are into ugly guys.”

She laughs, a disgruntled but pleased thing, shaking her head. The laugh reaches her eyes the same way a genuine smile would.

Peter relaxes, feeling the sound flutter inside him like an alive thing. 

Johnny twirls a noodle around his fork. His fingers are strong and deft, and Peter knows they save lives, which is awesome, but he also likes how they feel laced through his own.

He likes that he knows how that feels now.

Not while they’re in bed and Johnny is kissing his way down Peter’s body, but walking into the restaurant, Peter squeezing when he feels overwhelmed by the warmth of Johnny’s palm pressed flush against his, and Johnny squeezing back. 

It’s really, really awesome. 

“My boss is complaining about flying to meet with hospital investors the week he’s supposed to have this timeshare upstate. He was going alone because his wife left him six months ago. Now he’s being put up in a fancy hotel, getting his meals comped, and there’s more chances to find someone to sleep with in Miami than alone in a cabin.”

“People in this country can’t afford healthcare, and your boss is getting an all-expenses paid trip to meet with someone buying a hospital wing?”

“I know.” Johnny stabs at the pile of noodles on his plate. “But he did offer us the cabin.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. We could buy the _Times_ on our way up, do the crossword together by the fire. Hike. Argue when you get us lost.”

“Me?” Peter asks. “You’d get us lost.”

“I do have the hubris of a doctor, but I’ve seen you start walking in the wrong direction after getting off the subway multiple times.”

“I don’t spend a lot of time in the financial district!”

“Still speaks to your sense of direction,” Johnny says, smug smirk on his mouth before it disappears behind another forkful of pasta. 

Peter shakes his head. “I’d like to see you navigate Queens without your phone’s GPS.”

“Soon,” Johnny promises around the last chews of spaghetti, a knowing twinkle in his eye. “So, yes or no on the cabin?”

Peter takes a sip of wine, considering. 

He likes Johnny a lot, and things have been going really well. But MJ likes to do the Sunday crossword puzzle when she’s frustrated by something she’s writing or reading. She hunches over the dining table, strands of hair in her face, sometimes asking Ned, Flash or Peter for answers she doesn’t know or knows they won’t have.

He likes Johnny, but the idea of taking him to Queens feels like taking him to meet May. Peter wants Johnny to meet May eventually, but he hasn’t completely shaken the worry that nudges at him whenever Johnny talks about the future. It feels fleeting, ephemeral -- one of MJ’s crossword answers from a couple weeks ago. 

Peter trusts that Johnny wants to try. He’s been a great boyfriend: hand holding, burning eggs at his apartment after a night together, and sharing a soda at the movies. But Peter doesn’t want to introduce him to May only for him to change his mind again. 

Peter worries that spending an entire weekend alone on what amounts to a couples vacation would move that process along. 

And he also knows that it’s not fair. 

He needs to truly trust that Johnny is in this, otherwise Peter is the one stunting the relationship. He’s the one hastening the end by not believing they could build a future together. 

“Let me think about it,” Peter decides.

“Okay, just let me know by next Sunday.”

“Yeah, I will.” Peter picks at a garlicky piece of steamed broccoli that has no right to be as good as it is, rolling his shoulders back. 

“You could ask Ned and Betty if they want to come, too,” Johnny offers. 

Peter looks at him, and he sees some acknowledgement behind Johnny’s eyes, an understanding of Peter’s hesitance. “That sounds good. I’ll ask them.”

“Great.” Johnny smiles, warm and kind.

Peter feels silly for doubting him, but it doesn’t erase how it lingers. 

The teacher’s union meeting went long, boring as usual, even if Peter’s grateful it exists and for all the work they do. His salary is still too low, and he still spends too much of his own money on his classroom, but he cannot imagine how much worse it would be without the union representatives negotiating and providing invaluable services and advice. 

Peter drops his bag on the table, ready to ignore any grading or lesson planning he should do in favor of ordering takeout and watching a movie with Ned. Betty’s on assignment this week, so Ned won’t be caught up in wedding planning. Betty takes a very hands-on approach to everything, and while she listens to Ned’s input, she doesn’t want him making any decisions, even ones about the groomsmen’s tuxedos, without her. It frees Ned up for _Alien_ or _Blade Runner_ or maybe a not-at-all long-awaited _Star Wars_ rewatch.

“Ned?” Peter calls. 

“Yeah!”

Peter walks further into the apartment, heading towards Ned’s room before he spots him in the bathroom with Flash and MJ.

MJ’s putting on lipstick, Flash is gelling his hair, and Ned is modeling a hat in the mirror. 

“Going out?” Peter asks.

Flash sings, “We’re going to get laaaaaid.”

Ned says, “Wingman, reporting for duty!”

MJ says, “Yes.”

“Give me a few minutes. I’ll help Ned wingman.”

Ned, MJ and Flash glance at each other. Peter hesitates in the doorway. 

“You can’t come, Penis,” Flash says.

Peter’s eyebrows pull together, and he frowns. “Why not?”

There’s another three-way exchange.

“Fine, Ned can help Flash, and I’ll help MJ.”

“No,” MJ says, too quick. “Sorry, Peter, but you’re terrible at being a wingman.”

“I am not!”

“Dude.” Ned rests a sympathetic palm on his shoulder. “You’re her cooler.”

“What?”

“You know it’s true,” MJ starts. “I appreciate you stepping in when I’m not interested, because the kind of assholes who can’t take no for an answer tend to respect a white man more than a black woman. But when I am interested, you find a way to ruin it.”

“I do not!”

“Dalton?”

“That was one time,” Peter sputters. 

“After you talked to Sean, he made a bullshit excuse and left.”

Peter blinks, staring at her, but she doesn’t budge. 

“I have more. Brian thought that you--”

“Okay, maybe. Accidentally. But Ned could be your wingman, and I could help Flash.”

“No,” Flash says. “You’d just make fun of my hair.”

“You do put too much product in it,” Ned says. 

“It deserves to be mocked,” MJ adds. 

Flash’s eyes go wide. “Jar.”

“No.” MJ turns to Peter, capping her lipstick. “Sorry, but you can’t come.”

“Fine. Johnny’s working late tonight, so maybe I’ll watch _Star Wars_ by myself.”

“Pete,” Ned sighs. “Don’t do that. We were going to count how many times anybody mentions The Force.”

Peter frowns, shoulders dropping. “I guess I’ll do laundry or grade AP chemistry tests or something.”

“That’s the spirit!” Flash says, smacking him on the shoulder. It’s a pretty hard hit, but it doesn’t hurt. 

“Have fun. Hope you get laid.”

“Oh, I will,” Flash assures, all arrogant bravado. 

Michelle offers a tight smile through the mirror as Peter leaves.

“_Star Wars_ tomorrow!” Ned says. 

Peter grades half of an exam, giving up when he cannot immediately read the student’s handwriting. He orders enough Chinese for two people, gets a load of laundry in the washer while he waits for overpriced delivery, and puts the clothes in the dryer after the food arrives. 

Eating too much chow mein while flipping through television channels, Peter ends up browsing Netflix long enough to realize nothing sounds promising and he won’t watch anything. He keeps looking for another five minutes, anyway.

He grabs his clean laundry and leaves it to wrinkle in the basket while going back over the weird cable channels Flash purchased. 

There’s nothing Peter wants to watch, so he flips off the TV and groans, head back on the sofa, apartment empty and quiet. 

_Scratch_. 

Peter closes his eyes tighter. 

_Scratch, scratch, scratch_. 

“Hello?” he calls. But there’s no response, just more scratching. 

Peter watched part of a story on a local news channel about break-ins, and his heart rate increases. One resident was held at gunpoint. 

Peter grabs a pillow on his way to the door, holding it against his chest like a shield. 

When he looks through the peephole, there’s nothing there. 

He sighs, relieved, embarrassed, and relieved nobody’s around to witness his embarrassment. Plopping face-down on the sofa, he contemplates going to sleep before 10 PM. 

_Scratch_. 

Peter jolts up, staring at the door. 

He’s freaked out. 

He calls Johnny, but the phone rings before taking Peter to voicemail. “Hey, Johnny. This is going to sound really stupid, but there’s a weird scratching at the door, and I watched a news segment about break-ins, and if you could stop by, that would be great.” _Scratch_. “Ah! There it is again!” He bites his lip. “Also, if you could not make fun of me, that’d be great, too. I’ll probably still be alive by the time you get off work, but if not, I really enjoyed our time together.”

Liz is on a date with a girl she met while running in Central Park, but Peter’s really, _really_ freaked out. Her phone sends him straight to voicemail. “Hey, Liz! You’re my best friend, and I love you so much. I might get robbed and murdered soon. So, I just needed you to know that. Love you. Bye.” A beat. “Hopefully not forever.”

_Scratch, scratch, scratch_. 

Peter doesn’t want to do it. 

MJ and Flash are supposed to pick strangers up, bring them home, and get laid. 

But.

It would kind of suck if one of them brought someone here only to find Peter’s brutally deformed and dead body. 

That would definitely be more of a cooler than Peter calling right now.

Right before he thinks the call will go to voicemail, MJ picks up. “What is it, Peter?”

“There might be a murderer trying to break in to our apartment.”

“Peter,” she says with no inflection. 

“I’m serious! There’s this weird scratching, but when I checked, nothing was there.”

“Exactly.”

“No! Not exactly! Someone tried to open the door, and there was this story on the news about a robbery in our neighborhood. The owner got held up at gunpoint, Em.”

“You want us all to come back so we can get murdered with you?” she asks flatly.

“There’s safety in numbers,” Peter says, eyes darting to the door as the scratching resumes. “Please, MJ. Please?”

She sighs. “See you in 40 minutes, dork. Try not to die before then.”

Peter watches the doorknob wiggle, kiddie baseball bat Ben gave him when he was eight clutched between his hands. 

The door opens.

“MJ!” Peter runs toward her, dropping the bat on the floor and pulling her into a hug. “Thank you so much.”

She huffs out a laugh, arms going around his shoulders. “Didn’t see any serial killers in the hallway.”

“Numbers!” Peter says, pulling the man behind MJ into their hug, smiling over their shoulders at Ned. 

“Jeff, this is our roommate Peter. He’s a hugger.”

Peter pulls back, sheepish, holding his hand out. “Sorry about that. I thought I was going to die.”

Flash steps past them, picking up the bat. “I thought you said they had a gun? You were going to beat the burglar with a stick?”

“It’s a baseball bat,” Peter says, grabbing it. “And I just needed something to defend myself with.”

“You could have tried a pan?” Ned offers helpfully, leaning against the kitchen counter. 

Peter shoots eye-daggers at him.

Ned shrugs.

“I’ll just put this away,” Peter says, smacking the end of the bat against his palm.

He shuffles to his room in shame, feeling super silly about making them all abandon their night out. 10:29 on a Friday, and his roommates dragged themselves home because Peter thought he heard something scratching at their door and overreacted. 

MJ knocks on his doorjamb. “Hey, loser.”

“Hey,” Peter says. 

“Jeff really liked me.”

“And he doesn’t anymore?”

She lifts a shoulder. “You ruined the mood.”

Peter grimaces. “God, I’m sorry, MJ.”

“Always the cooler.” Her mouth flirts with a smile, and she pulls at the sleeves of her top. 

“I’m… going to fix this.”

“How?” 

“Jeff’s still here, right?” Peter asks hopefully, glancing around at the clean laundry rumpled in his basket, the stack of textbooks on his desk, and the two empty beer bottles he never rinsed for recycling after he and Johnny drank them. 

“Getting his ear talked off by Flash.”

Peter’s eyes widen. “No.”

“Bad for me. But Jeff’s kind of into him, too.” 

“He likes you _and_ Flash?” Peter asks, eyebrows furrowing and mouth pinching. 

MJ laughs. “Weird, I know.” 

“Okay.” Peter nods once, determined. “I have an idea.”

Passing out beers for everyone to shotgun, Peter announces: “The game is True American, Revised Edition: Clinton Rules.”

MJ says, “Gross.”

Peter says, “I know. But I didn’t have much time to think.”

“It’s 25% Candyland and 75% drinking game,” Ned explains to Jeff. “And the floor is lava.”

“15% and 85%,” MJ corrects. 

“Sounds fun,” Jeff says, sentence lifting up like a question.

“It’ll all make sense once we start,” Peter assures.

“Let’s go,” Ned says. “1, 2, 3, 4!”

Flash, Michelle and Peter scream: “JFK! FDR!” 

Shotgunning their beers, Peter taps Jeff on the arm so he’ll do the same. 

Cans get tossed toward the recycling bin, and then Peter is pushing Jeff toward MJ. “Go, go, go! Follow her!”

Peter shifts through various items littering the floor, finding an acceptable coffee table book to stand on in the first quadrant. “Besides Clinton, what other US president was impeached?”

“Nixon!” Flash yells.

“No.” Peter reaches for another can of beer and takes a sip. “Resigned.”

Flash says, “Shit.”

Ned says, “Andrew Johnson.”

“Yes!” Peter throws his hand up for an air high-five that Ned returns. 

MJ rolls her eyes, and Flash scoffs. Maybe they’re alike enough on the surface that Jeff being interested in each of them sort of makes sense. Maybe. Peter still has doubts. 

“_Speed_ and _Who Framed Roger Rabbit_?” Ned asks. 

“What does that have to do with Clinton?” Jeff asks.

“Nothing!” Flash calls.

“We have to figure out what they have in common,” MJ says. 

“The people who made _Roger Rabbit_ were high on speed?” Jeff offers.

Ned laughs. “I don’t know.”

“They’re both movies?” Flash tries.

“Yeah. But, no.”

“They both won Oscars?” Peter guesses.

“Ding, ding, ding!” Ned does a little shimmy on the sofa. “Sound effects editing.”

“You guys are cheating!” Flash yells.

“Shut up, Eugene,” MJ says.

“You shut up, Michelle!”

She glares at him. “Clever.”

“First capital of the US?” Peter asks.

Flash and Michelle both scream, “New York!”

“I was first,” Flash adds.

“You’re kidding?” MJ asks. “Are you five?”

Peter exchanges a look with Ned before glancing between Flash and MJ. Flash could scooch the cushion he stands on and be in smacking distance of MJ. It’s juvenile, but there’s precedent. 

“You’re cheating. Standing on that chair with Jeff?” Flash gasps. “_You’re_ Bill Clinton!”

MJ’s eyes widen, jaw clenching. “Jar.”

“I’m right! It’s illegal to start on the same square as someone else.”

MJ says, “They’re not squares.”

Ned says, “That was too far, dude.”

“You’re just using your feminine wiles,” Flash starts, gesturing wildly. 

“Jar,” MJ answers, gaze narrowing.

“Pressing yourself against him, giving him answers!”

“You owe the jar like, $10, man,” Ned says. 

“I saw him first, and you’re not--”

“Iron curtain!” Peter shouts.

Flash, MJ, Ned and Jeff all ask, “What?”

“Two of you have to go behind the iron curtain, which is that door,” Peter says, pointing, “and kiss. A real kiss.”

“Told you you’re Clinton,” Flash says to MJ. “He’s trying to help you.”

She rolls her eyes. 

“The count!” Ned shouts. “1, 2, 3, 4!”

Flash screams at Jeff, holding up two fingers so their number will match and they can head behind the door together. 

MJ tries to yell over him, explaining.

Ned continues: “JFK!”

Peter and Ned yell, “FDR!”

Everyone holds their fingers to their foreheads. 

Ned has four.

Flash has two.

Jeff has managed five, probably just throwing his hand up in the commotion. 

MJ has three. 

Peter feels his eyes bulge, three fingers pressed against his own forehead. 

“Peter and MJ,” Flash says, scoffing out a laugh. “Well, looks like someone just got impeached.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” MJ snaps. 

“So,” Jeff starts, “you and Peter have to go behind the door and kiss?”

Flash grins, smug and satisfied. “Yep.”

Peter glances at Ned for help, but Ned’s looking at MJ, something sad in his eyes, brow knitted in concern. “The rules are the rules,” he decides.

MJ sighs, hopping off her chair. “Come on, nerd,” she says, waving Peter toward her. “You did this.”

Peter’s shoulders slump, and he looks at MJ with remorse before stepping off the coffee table book and onto the floor. 

Flash pulls the door closed behind them, smacking his lips together.

“I’m so sorry,” Peter says. 

“I know.” MJ leans against the door, arms crossed. 

Her eyes are resigned, and Peter moves to stand next to her. “I’m your cooler.”

“We told you.”

“I didn’t want to believe it.”

“I know that, too.” She turns her head, smiling slightly, sadly.

Peter caused that, he thinks. He messed up her night, and now she’s trapped in here with him, the heater kicking in unnecessarily. “You wanna get this over with before Flash flirts Jeff into his bedroom?”

“No,” MJ says. 

“It’s not over yet, MJ. We’ll kiss, we’ll be freed, I’ll step into the lava and die, retreat to my room and stop getting in your way.”

“I know I blamed you for ruining my dating chances, but I don’t think you deserve all the credit.” She pivots, shoulder the fulcrum. “I’m kind of hard to like.”

“No,” Peter says. “You’re really easy to like.”

She rolls her eyes. “I could be if I wanted to be, but I don’t.”

“I still disagree.”

MJ’s eyes drift over his face, and Peter can’t read her at all. She doesn’t want him to. “Just a little, barely there kiss, okay?” she asks. 

“Yeah.”

They spend a minute with their cheeks pressed together, passing her phone back and forth to find the most convincing angle so Flash and Ned will let them out. MJ opens her mouth all weird, but she doesn’t really make contact with Peter’s lips, and it looks passable, like maybe her mouth is touching his. 

She snaps a photo and sends it. 

“You call that a kiss?” Flash asks from the other side of the door. “Do better! I’ve planted better ones on MJ over breakfast.”

“On the cheek counts?” MJ asks. 

There’s hushed whispering, and then Flash yells, “Nope!”

Ned says, “Sorry guys, but there was a clear and present intent when the rule was made.”

“Overrule it, then,” MJ says. 

“I tried, but Jeff and Flash both vetoed the amendment.”

“This game has gotten away from us,” MJ mutters.

“I believe in you guys,” Ned says, and Peter can almost hear the thumbs up he’s throwing their way. “And hey, at least neither of you are in there with Flash.”

MJ groans, and Peter cringes. 

“This is so stupid,” MJ says. 

“Jeff can’t follow instructions. Are you sure you want to sleep with him?”

She glares.

“Sorry.”

“Let’s just,” she starts, voice tight and high, rolling her shoulders back and shaking out her arms. “Let’s just do this.”

“I don’t want to make you,” Peter says.

It seemed like a good idea when Flash was picking a fight with MJ, when Peter thought Jeff and MJ would end up here, a trajectory started at the bar before he wedged an ice cube between them. Heating up the cold war behind the iron curtain. 

Or something far less stupid. 

Now it’s weird. 

MJ clears her throat. There’s a clump of mascara at the corner of her left eye. Her lipstick has dried, and she tugs the sleeves of her plain black top over her palms. She’s wearing her dark, fancy jeans and little, black boots with heels that add another inch to her height advantage. 

“You look nice,” Peter says, throat dry. 

“That’s unnecessary.”

“Right.” Peter exhales, taking a step toward her. 

She responds in kind.

Peter lifts his arms, hesitates. Should he put his hands on her waist? Shoulders? Should he not touch her at all? He’s going to need to be up on his toes, and his balance is pretty good, but what if he topples into her accidentally?

He hears someone knocking at their front door. 

“Peter,” MJ says, interrupting the panic seeping into his brain. “You don’t have to do this, either.”

“Okay.” He wipes his palms against his pants. 

“So, where is Peter?” Johnny asks someone. 

“Oh my god, Johnny!” Peter jumps away from Michelle. “Let us out of here!”

“What’re you doing back there?” Johnny asks, amused. 

“No,” Flash interrupts. “Peter and MJ have to kiss before they can come out.”

“True American,” Ned explains. 

Peter’s breath catches, waiting for Johnny to decide that it’s very stupid to force his boyfriend to kiss someone else. He can run into Johnny’s arms and escape. His own, personal life-saver. 

And then Johnny, absolute fucker, starts clapping and chanting, “Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss.”

Flash and Jeff join in.

A breath later, in a move of absolute mob mentality and utter betrayal, Ned adds his voice to the chorus. 

“Your boyfriend fucking sucks,” MJ says through gritted teeth. 

“I know,” Peter rushes. “You wanna just… get this over with?”

“Fine.” 

Peter stares at her. He sees the nerves fluttering around her eyes, the tension in her jaw as she attempts to clamp her anxiety down. 

He licks at his mouth. 

“What was that?” she asks, gaze darting around his face and refusing to settle.

Peter swallows. “Mouth’s dry.”

“Right.” She exhales, stepping into his space.

Peter still doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He moves them, hovering over her waist. “Should I?” he asks. 

“Sure,” she says, quiet. 

The chanting has died down, and their audience has lost interest. Peter hears faint murmurs, a loose thread of Johnny’s laugh. 

MJ’s hands find Peter’s face, and her touch is feather-light. Her fingers are a little cold, and Peter fights the shiver quaking along his spine, the heater making everything else feel stuffy and warm.

Michelle closes her eyes, and Peter watches her take a deep breath. Ghosts of freckles scatter across her nose. He’s never noticed them before. 

“Close your eyes, Peter,” she whispers.

“Sorry,” he apologizes. A broken record tonight. 

His eyelids slide shut, stomach churning. 

“I know,” she says. 

He can feel her breath against his mouth. 

He can feel her lean in. 

Her hands press more solidly against his cheeks, fingertips in his hair.

“I can’t do this,” she says, shifting back. 

Peter opens his eyes, palms still on her waist.

Johnny laughs again, louder this time, and frustration joins the storm already swirling in Peter’s gut. He’s tense, and confused, and annoyed. He directs it all at the only other person in the room: “Just kiss me, MJ.”

“No.”

“Just five seconds and it’s over!”

“Not like this!”

“It’s just a--” he starts. Stops. Processes. 

She pulls away completely.

“Wait, what?” Peter asks.

“Nothing,” she says, monotone and unreadable. 

“What did you mean?” Peter asks again, heart hammering in his throat. 

“Nothing.” She struggles, pulling the window up. 

“Good idea,” Peter agrees. “It’s kind of hot in-- What are you doing?”

“Leaving,” she states, matter-of-fact, swinging one leg over the frame. 

“MJ, come on.”

“I’m not giving in to peer pressure and bullying. And I’m pretty sure I can make a case for harassment.”

Peter runs a hand through his hair. “MJ, I’m sorry, okay? Just, come back inside. You’re right. You don’t have to kiss me.”

“It’s fine,” she says, shaky. “I can see the fire escape, and this ledge is pretty wide.” An even shakier exhale. “This is fine. I have long legs.”

“You’re scared of heights,” Peter says. He’d grab her, help pull her back inside, but he doesn’t want to risk startling her, doesn’t want to risk her pulling away and losing her balance. 

She glances at him, one brief second, paler than he’s ever seen her, wide-eyed and absolutely terrified. Her breathing is loud and uneven.

MJ shuffles, toward the fire escape and further away. 

Ned and Flash pull MJ inside, and Johnny frees Peter from behind the iron curtain.

Nobody won, except for Flash, who takes Jeff to his room, closing the door with a warning that he can’t promise not to be loud.

“Thanks for coming to save me,” Peter says, tossing the empty beer cans into the recycling bin. 

“I’m glad you weren’t murdered.”

“Me too.” Peter looks around the loft. Everything appears to be cleaned up well enough. “Bed?”

“Please,” Johnny says, grabbing Peter’s forearm and pulling him closer. He kisses him once, short and sweet. “Long day. Thought I almost lost you.”

Peter laughs, biting around a smile.

“Don’t mind me,” MJ says, voice a little hoarse. “Just getting water.”

“How’re you doing?” Johnny asks.

“Good.” 

“I can’t believe you’d rather risk falling to your death than kiss Peter.”

She nods, mouth pressed thin. MJ sets a glass on the counter and opens the fridge to pull out the filter. “Pretty stupid of me.”

“You’re missing out,” Johnny teases. He presses a kiss to Peter’s cheek. “I’m gonna head to bed.”

“Okay,” Peter says. “Be there in a minute.”

“Night, MJ.”

“Night.” She takes a long gulp of water, leaning against the refrigerator. She stares down at her feet. 

“You sure you’re okay?” Peter asks. 

MJ’s half-shadowed in the dark kitchen when she finds his eyes. “Yeah.”

“I’m really sorry if you felt pressured,” Peter says. 

“It’s fine.” She rubs her lips together. “I didn’t.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.” 

Peter watches the line of her throat as she finishes her glass. He traces the shape of her jaw, nose, the curve of her shoulder. He can’t see her faded freckles, but he knows they’re there. 

He could’ve lost her. 

Over something so stupid. 

The terror of seeing her on the ledge caught up with him after she was already back inside, seeing the way she trembled, unsteady on her legs, pushing her hair back and insisting she was fine. Peter feels it now in the exhaustion built up in his bones, swooping in to replace the anxiety of the scratching, the tension in the room with MJ, and the fear of seeing her outside, holding on to the building with fingers that had just been holding his face. 

“You scared me,” he says. 

“I’m okay.” She lifts one shoulder. “Never going to do that again. Don’t worry.”

“You going to bed?”

It’s just past one, but MJ’s used to closing shifts at the bar. Peter’s struck by the urge to ask about watching an episode of something together. He wants to be close to her.

“Yeah. Near-death experiences take a lot out of me.” She smiles, small but real, maybe a little embarrassed.

Peter smiles back, the pulse of worry still swimming through him. “Understandable. Yours took a lot out of me, too.”

She laughs, bumps his shoulder as they start toward the hallway together. “Loser.”

“Can I give you a hug?” Peter asks outside their bedroom doors.

MJ bites the corner of her lip and nods. “I mean, this is all about you.”

Peter laughs under his breath, shaking his head and pulling her close. He presses his nose against her shoulder, squeezing her tight. “Goodnight, Em,” he says softly, waiting a beat before loosening his hold on her. 

She tucks some hair behind her ear. “Goodnight, Peter.” 

He sends her one last smile. She’s right. She’s the one who was perched on the ledge and pulled onto the fire escape.

She’s okay. 

She should sleep, and tomorrow he can make her coffee and grimace while watching whatever crime procedural strikes her fancy. 

Turning toward his room, Peter feels her hand on his wrist. A gentle tug. 

He whirls around. 

He’s ready to say fuck it. He’s exhausted, but he’ll watch the next episode of _Criminal Minds_ with her. 

But the momentum is too much. MJ’s moving, too.

And then she’s kissing him.

_Really_ kissing him.

Her mouth is firm, lips soft but determined, and Peter silently gasps, arms going around her, pulling her in. She has a hand on his face, fingers edging into his hair and thumb rubbing against his cheek, sending little electric jolts through him with each swipe. 

MJ tilts her head, breaking the kiss. Their foreheads lean together, her body still pressed against his, tighter than a hug. 

“I meant something like that,” she breathes. 

Air rushes into Peter’s lungs. Shock seizes him.

He blinks.

And then MJ’s gone, bedroom door closing in his face.

Peter lifts a hand, touches his mouth, lips tingling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Primary _New Girl_ episodes used: 2x11: Santa and 2x15: Cooler.


	6. six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He asks, after, when she’s rolling clothes into her suitcase, if she wants him to come. Peter didn’t know her father, not like Ned and Flash did. He hasn’t held any sort of conversation with her mom or the rest of her family, and he doesn’t want to intrude on something intimate and personal._
> 
> _MJ tucks a curl behind her ear. “I paid $180 for your ticket.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler alert: MJ's dad dies in this chapter. It doesn't really delve too much into grief/mourning, but there's some drinking as coping. Because of the smaller, episodic nature of everything (sitcom!), it's absolutely possible to skip that section of the story and not be lost -- between the two *'s. Take care of yourselves.

Peter drifts in and out of a fitful, hazy sleep. 

MJ is there, behind his eyelids. Kitty watches, amused, fingernails sharp where they dig into Peter’s shoulder. Kitty pushes them together, except Peter doesn’t flinch, doesn’t chicken out. 

He kisses MJ, and she kisses him. 

MJ is there, outside the window. She stands on the ledge and topples over. She doesn’t scream, but her breathing is fast and shallow as her fingers grip the edge. Peter reaches for her, taking both her hands in his. One is warm, and the other is cold. 

MJ is there, half-lit in the kitchen. Everything black and white, a noir-like feeling, dangerous and mysterious. 

MJ is there. 

Peter’s eyes flutter open and he swallows around a dry throat. Anxiety knots in his stomach, tension embedded into every muscle. He thinks about his mouth enough that it feels foreign and separate from the rest of him. 

He can’t toss and turn; he doesn’t want to wake Johnny. 

Johnny lies on his back, mouth barely parted, one hand resting on his stomach. Johnny doesn’t hog covers, or snore, or kick in his sleep. He’s a perfect sleeping companion, but Peter can’t surrender to the pull. 

When the sun starts peeking through the curtains, Peter slips out of bed, tiptoeing around and dressing like a one-night stand aiming to leave before the other person wakes up. He scribbles a note on a pink post-it, sticking it to the nightstand and cringing when the door’s hinges creak. 

Debating calling an Uber, Peter decides to walk to the bus stop. He bypasses the closest one, heading to the stop after, and, en route, watches the bus drive by him. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. It’s early March and too cold, but Peter likes the chill of wind blowing against his face, eyes open and alert in a way his brain isn’t and hasn’t been since just after one in the morning. 

Peter takes the bus to Liz’s.

He texts her, but he still has her spare key from when he slept on her sofa -- after Felicia and before 3B. Peter lets himself in and sits on the couch, head in his hands, focused on breathing: in and out, in and out. 

An unknowable amount of time later, Liz yelps, rushing out of her room, holding her lilac rob closed, eyes wide and franic. “You what!?”

“MJ kissed me.” Peter pushes up on his elbows and runs a hand through his hair. “I might have kissed her back?”

“What!?” Liz ties the robe’s belt into a limp bow, unblinking. 

“I don’t know!”

“It’s too early for this. I need tea. Do you want some?”

“Sure,” Peter says. 

Liz exhales slowly, smoothing a hand across the top of her head. She mumbles, “Oh my god,” under her breath. 

Peter hears her puttering around the kitchen: the rush of water filling the kettle, the creak of the cabinet where she stores her mugs, and the soft clank when she sets them on the counter. 

“How was it?” Liz asks. 

Peter sighs, limbs heavy. He feels his left eye twitch, so he closes it and rubs gently to make it stop. Crossing into the kitchen, he shrugs. “It was good? I don’t know.”

“I left Lian to three text messages informing me you didn’t die.”

“How was your date?” Peter asks.

“Really good. I think we’re going out again on Friday.”

“That’s great.” Peter shoots her a small smile, nodding encouragingly. 

“I love you, too, by the way.” She rubs her lips together like she’s smearing chapstick. “MJ kissed you?”

“Yeah.”

“Jeez, Peter. That’s like … she kissed you, or she _kissed_ you?”

He swallows. “We said goodnight. And then she grabbed me and kissed me. And it was…” He traces his mouth with his fingertips, trying to find a word, but there’s nothing to hold onto. “...surreal? Like those dreams I used to have, except this was happening, and I was watching it from another dimension, but I could also feel her pressed up against me.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t do that,” Peter sighs. 

“You don’t hear yourself when you talk.”

“I do! I just don’t need you to tell me you told me so, okay? You can do that later, but I’m kind of freaking out right now.”

“I know.” Liz has humor in her eyes, and it somehow makes Peter feel lighter. “The kiss was good, right?”

He rubs at the nape of his neck. “Really good. Weirdly good, actually? Kind of amazing?”

“And you like her.”

“We’re friends,” Peter says. 

The kettle starts vibrating on the stove, water boiling and steam building. Liz ignores it. “I know that. But it’s not why you showed up at my apartment before 8 AM.”

“She’s one of my best friends, Liz. I don’t know why she kissed me or what it means or how I feel about it.”

Liz tilts her head, arms crossed over her chest. “You feel something, Peter.”

She’s right. 

She’s always right. 

He just can’t pinpoint what emotion swirls in his stomach, the dominant feeling when he considers MJ kissing him. It’s terrifying. Peter has always worn his heart on his sleeve and possessed an intuitive understanding of his feelings, no matter how oversized they could be. From the intensity of his first crush, to the crushing guilt and despair he felt after Ben died, Peter has always felt earnestly.

He doesn’t know why anxiety lurks in his lungs, his breathing shallow. If his dominant emotion is fear, then what does that mean? What is he afraid of? 

“It’s not fair to anybody for you to wait to talk to her about this. Johnny doesn’t deserve to be a backup plan,” Liz says softly.

“He’s not,” Peter says. “God, he’s not.”

The kettle whistles, a piercing shriek, and Peter considers guilt: over kissing MJ while dating Johnny, over being so consumed with his own uncertainty that he hasn’t considered how Johnny might feel, and over leaving Johnny alone in his bed. 

He watches Liz pour hot water into their mugs. The string of Peter’s teabag slips, and she presses it against the ceramic with two fingers, holding it in place. 

“You like him. I know how much you do, Pete,” Liz says, handing over his tea. “But you kissed her back.”

She looks at him with sure eyes, like it’s that simple. 

Peter disagrees. Nothing about this situation is simple. There’s Johnny, and there’s MJ, and emotions are complex and illogical, and yet Peter feels a stirring need to be rational. Too much is at stake for a miscalculated risk. 

“We could make a pro/con list,” Liz offers. Her mouth tips up, almost a smile. It’s what Liz would do in almost any situation, but they’ve both seen that episode of _Friends_, and Peter prefers to bounce ideas off of people in person to garner perspective, and then follow his impulses. 

“Funny.”

She whispers a laugh. “I know you’re freaking out, and you look awful--”

“Thanks.”

“--but maybe we should just sit down and talk about how MJ kissed you like when we were in high school and crushing on the same girl?”

“Wait, do you think MJ’s cute?”

Liz hits Peter’s shoulder, a light, girly sort of shove. “She’s beautiful, Peter.”

He laughs, pulling out his usual chair from the kitchen table so he can sit across from Liz. “Yeah, I know she is.”

“Tongue?” 

“A little bit.”

Liz smirks. “Hands?”

“Nice.”

Liz takes a sip of tea, smirking around her mug. Her eyes are bright. “She run them through your hair?” 

“A little bit?”

“I don’t understand why you like that so much. If someone messed up my hair, it would be over.”

“You’d at least give them a warning first,” Peter says, running a finger around the rim of his mug, the ceramic too warm to press his palms against. 

“Yeah,” Liz agrees, slight tilt of her chin as she nods. “I can’t kick someone to the curb because they didn’t know to keep their fingers away from my scalp. Like my dad says, three strikes and you’re out.”

“That’s baseball.”

She waves her hand. “I know. Enough about sports. Unless we’re using that gross base system. Second base?”

“Shut up.” Peter feels heat flushing his cheeks. 

He thinks Liz knew she wouldn’t be able to get his mind off it, brain circling the event like water around a drain, so she redirected the conversation into something easier. Baser, maybe. But easier. Lying on her bed, door open because her parents didn’t know she was gay yet, and whispering about who they’d ask to homecoming if their dream date would be guaranteed to say yes.

Liz toasts Peter a bagel and offers eggs while he slathers butter onto it. She tries to force a banana into his hands before he leaves, but he isn’t very hungry and the fruit is too ripe, covered in brown spots. Peter prefers them yellow, and there are apples back at the loft. 

He catches the bus, the sun already beginning to warm up the early spring air. 

Johnny sent Peter a text when he woke up. He’s still at the apartment. 

Peter’s heart clenches in his chest, and he likes Johnny so much. He likes that Johnny only eats scrambled eggs, knows more about cars than anybody Peter has ever met, and possesses a competitive streak that fits right into a normal game of True American. He likes the filing cabinet filled with drawings and notes from children Johnny’s helped at the hospital. 

Peter owes Johnny a second chance. A real one. 

He wants to spend a couple’s weekend at Johnny’s boss’s cabin, bringing Ned and Betty along. He wants to get lost on a trail and bicker about whether they should go left or right, and he wants to kiss Johnny underneath stars they can actually see. 

Thanking the driver as he gets off at his stop, Peter feels fortified. He likes Johnny, and MJ is his best friend, and it’s stupid to risk something good for something that might not be. 

He unlocks the apartment door and finds MJ at the island sipping a cup of coffee. “My law school loans are still at $30,000,” she says. 

“You went to law school?” Johnny asks, sitting across from her. 

“She’s a Harvard grad,” Peter offers. 

“Hey, Peter.” Johnny’s voice is low and fond; it’s not quite his morning voice, but it settles warm in Peter’s stomach just the same. “How was Liz?”

“Uh, fine. She’s fine. Her date was good.”

“Does she feel bad about leaving you to get murdered last night?” he asks. 

Peter unzips his jacket and clears his throat. “No. Not really.”

Johnny chuckles.

MJ slurps some coffee. “I’m just going to--”

“Hold on,” Johnny interrupts. 

MJ freezes, tension suspended in her neck and shoulders. She presses her mouth flat and blinks at Johnny. 

“You went to Harvard Law?”

“Yes.” 

“Did you graduate?”

She shrugs. “Yes.”

Johnny asks, “Why aren’t you practicing?”

“Don’t want to be.”

He whistles. “What? You failed the bar?”

“No.”

“Hey, Johnny. Don’t.” Peter slips off his shoes and takes a careful step forward, pausing at the end of the counter, halfway between them. 

“I just can’t believe you graduated from Harvard. If you got a job as an attorney, even for a couple years, you’d really make a dent in those loans. Then you could write your book or whatever.” Johnny looks at Peter. “Right, babe?”

“Yeah, but--”

“--I’ll leave you two to discuss my life choices,” MJ says, a bite to the sentence that’s different from her usual sarcasm or unaffected responses. 

“Sorry, MJ,” Peter says. 

She looks at him for the first time since he came back, expression blank. Her jaw clenches. “Don’t.”

“He didn’t mean it like that.”

“Fine.” Her eyes narrow, and she pushes off the island. 

“Yeah, MJ. I’m just confused.” Johnny looks at her. “You can explain why you’d rather be in debt, and then we can kiss and make up.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” MJ breathes, glancing at Peter again. “I was just finishing the game.”

“What?” Johnny asks. 

Peter blinks, baffled. 

“It wasn’t even my stupid idea. It was yours.”

_Shit_.

“No,” Peter says. “It’s not-- he’s not making fun of you.”

“I am a little,” Johnny says, looking between them.

She sets her mug down, heavy and loud. “Fuck you.”

“MJ, no. He’s just-- he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know.”

She glares at Peter.

Johnny asks, “Wait, know what?”

Peter and Michelle stare each other down. Her brown eyes molten but cold, thawing as Peter’s widen. She relaxes, body loosening and shoulders dropping, mouth turning down in a barely there frown. She blinks, and Peter wades through something akin to regret and guilt, much like his own, but this time it’s hers. 

“What’s going on?” Johnny repeats. His eyes skim over MJ before returning to Peter, brow pinched. 

“We kissed,” Peter says. 

Johnny shakes his head. “No.”

He searches Peter’s face, asks, “What?”

Peter watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, a thick and audible thing. “When?”

“Last night.”

Dread curls itself around Peter’s ribs, squeezing against his heart like a viper. 

Johnny looks at MJ. “Fuck _you_,” he spits. And then, back to Peter. “That’s why you went to Liz’s? Are you kidding? You came to bed. You slept next to me.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. I was confused.”

“Confused?” Johnny asks, voice vibrating with anger. Peter’s honesty only worsening the situation and exacerbating Johnny’s hurt. 

“It’s my fault,” MJ says. “Peter didn’t do anything. I wasn’t thinking. I was just trying to finish the game and--”

“Bullshit,” Johnny says, pushing the stool back so it scrapes against the floor. 

Peter winces. 

Johnny pulls himself up to his full height, taller than Peter, and taller than MJ. “The game was over.”

“Right,” MJ grits out. “But everyone was making fun of me. Like kissing someone is no big deal. So I did it. Peter didn’t do anything wrong. I kissed him.”

“MJ,” Peter whispers. Because that’s not fair. He kissed her back, and she shouldn’t have to bear the brunt of Johnny’s anger. 

Johnny works his jaw, hands clenched into fists by his sides. “I can’t do this.”

“Please. Just let me explain,” Peter says. He reaches out, but Johnny flinches away. 

“This,” Johnny starts, gesturing between them, “wasn’t nothing, Peter. I put myself out there for you, and I’m not gonna let you play games with me. She kissed you, whatever. But you should have known what you wanted.”

“I do know.”

“You didn’t know soon enough,” he says. He looks at MJ. “God, I want to hit you.”

“What? You don’t hit girls?” she asks. 

“MJ,” Peter warns. 

Johnny laughs, low and dark. “You want to feel brave for kissing my boyfriend after the game was over? Fine. But you’re still a coward.”

Michelle exhales. Her face is hard, but her voice is soft: “Don’t punish Peter for my mistake.”

“Don’t flatter yourself; you’re not that important.” Johnny glances at Peter. “Not to me, anyway.”

Johnny’s exit is quick, gathering up his wallet and keys from Peter’s nightstand, shoving on his shoes and slamming the door behind him. 

He makes it clear he doesn’t want to discuss what happened. Peter’s mistake was hesitance. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t crawl into bed and laugh about how MJ kissed him. He kissed MJ back, and he left, needing advice on how to proceed. 

Johnny wants someone more sure about him than Peter, and Peter is more sure now than he was 24 hours ago, when trusting Johnny not to leave was something he wanted more than believed. 

But Johnny left, and the only person Peter has to blame is himself. 

Peter lies in bed and stares at the ceiling, blasting Joni Mitchell’s _River_. 

After Johnny left, he took an unfulfilling nap, made a box of Kraft mac’n’cheese and mixed in peas so he could feel better about it. He watched _Blue Valentine_ and cried, quiet, heartfelt sobs, runny nose and headache procured. 

There’s a knock.

“Just one second, Ned.”

“It’s not Ned,” Michelle says, opening the door. 

Peter turns his head to look at her. 

She exhales. “You ordered a 12 pack of Insomnia Cookies?”

“Ned and I are going to watch _The Phantom Menace_.” 

“Oh.” 

“You can have a cookie,” Peter offers. 

Joni wails in the background, and MJ’s eyes are sad. She says, “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, pushing up on his elbows. “I want to blame you, Em. I really do. But it’s not your fault.”

She nods once, an incremental, slow tilt of her chin. “Can I come in?” 

“Yeah.” Peter sits back against the headboard, running a hand through his hair and blinking his eyes. They still feel sticky, puffy.

Michelle sits on the end of his bed. 

She doesn’t say anything. 

Peter studies the curve of her eyelashes, the hunch of her shoulders, and the crease where her lips come together, mouth tight and hard. MJ’s hands are folded in her lap, and her top thumb runs back and forth in a slow, steady rhythm. _River_ finishes before starting up again. 

“This is really depressing,” she says. 

“Beautiful, though. Don’t you think?”

She catches his eye. “I do.”

“I tried shuffling Taylor Swift, but the first song was _22_, and I didn’t want to find out if it would make me cry.”

MJ’s eyes light up a little. “Are you trying to comfort me?”

“Is it working?”

She breathes out, amused. “You’re the one who was dumped.”

“Thanks. I didn’t know that.”

“I never should have kissed you. It was stupid.” She frowns, looking down and fiddling with her thumbs. 

Impossibly, Peter feels his heart pulse in his chest. 

He doesn’t know how to react, still. She kissed him for the game. She kissed him to prove that she could do it and that she wasn’t afraid. If she didn’t want to kiss him to win True American or sleep with Jeff, he gets it. It was a weird, stupid idea that didn’t work out and ruined her night. But it feels worse that she kissed him because she knew not kissing him was going to make her the butt of a joke. 

It twists uncomfortably in Peter’s bones, because it didn’t feel like that. 

It felt real, but maybe it’s better that it wasn’t.

He says, “It was a good kiss, at least.”

MJ looks at him, mouth pulling up into a small, pleased smile. “It was pretty good, wasn’t it?”

“You’re a good kisser.”

“I’m an incredible kisser,” she corrects, her smiling transforming into a full grin. “You’re welcome.”

“That kiss did get me dumped, so maybe don’t talk yourself up too much.”

“Right.” She schools her face. “I’ll put a dollar in the douchebag jar. And if you want somebody to watch _Dirty Dancing_ with you, I’m across the hall.”

Peter feels fondness for her welling up even as his heartbreak continues to flow. The emotions at odds. 

There’s something comforting about MJ. He’s gotten used to confiding in her, sitting in relaxed silence and feeling at peace -- at home -- like his day is a bit better for her shoulder pressed against his as they watch something on her bed. But right now, she’s wrapped up in the reason he wants to cry and listen to sad songs until every pause stops feeling poignant and the words lose all meaning. 

“I’m not mad at you, but I think I need to mourn this one with Ned and Liz, you know?”

“I get it,” she says. The curve of her mouth is back to unsure as she stands to leave. 

“Hey, MJ?”

She hums, turning, one hand resting against the side of his open door. “There’s a sugar cookie in the box for you.”

“Thanks. Enjoy your terrible movie.”

Shaking his head, he laughs lightly. “I will.”

Everything with Johnny crumbled faster than Peter can snap his fingers, but at least he and MJ are okay. 

*

Peter’s eyes are closed, one of Flash’s bandannas (freshly washed and smelling of fabric softener) wrapped around his head as he feels around the cup. “Baby carrot?”

“Peter, be serious,” Ned says. 

“I am!”

Flash says, “You think carrots are squishy?”

“I don’t know! Maybe it went bad!” Peter needlessly screws his eyes shut even more, pressing against the object. There’s some give to it, but a more solid center. “A roll of quarters?”

“This is so embarrassing,” Ned says, sounding absolutely delighted. He’s probably smiling. 

Peter hears some rustling, like maybe Ned and Flash are elbowing each other because Peter is out of quarters and about to lose Feely Cup -- another one of those weird games he’d never even heard of until moving into the loft and now finds stupidly fun. 

Except when he’s losing. 

“Straws rubberbanded together?” he tries. 

Ned laughs, and Flash says, “You don’t know what a rubberband feels like either, Penis? I’d be concerned if I wasn’t whooping your ass.”

Flash always talks a big game, and usually it’s for nothing, but he’s _good_ at this, correctly guessing tissues shoved into a protein bar wrapper, marker cap rolled in raw egg and dipped in glitter, and Ned’s class ring with a teabag shoved through it.

Peter would accuse him of cheating if he had any evidence, but they’re all sharing the same bandanna. When Ned tied it around Flash’s head last round, Flash protested that it was too loose and needed to be readjusted, that he could dip his head and see down.

It’s bizarre, frustrating Peter more as the clock winds down. 

“Do you want to pay for more time?” Ned asks.

“He’s out of money,” Flash says.

“An eraser!” Peter tries. 

“No,” Ned sighs, disappointed. “Hey, MJ.”

“Time’s up!” Flash hollers.

Peter shakes his head, pushing the bandanna up his forehead with the palm of his hand. 

“You wanna play Feely Cup?” Ned asks. 

Peter twists in his chair, resting his arm over the back. 

MJ shrugs, so Flash grabs the mug and leans across the table. Peter takes it from him, holding it out for easier reach. Closing her eyes and tilting her head up, MJ feels around, and then: “Lego embedded in a tampon, wrapped in duct tape and dipped in baking powder.”

Flash says, “Yes!”

Ned says, “The champ!”

Peter says, “Woah.”

MJ says, “My dad had a heart attack.” She pulls on the hem of her T-shirt. “He died.”

Peter’s stomach drops, and he grips the back of his chair instead of reaching for her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

She shakes her head. “It’s fine. Um, I need to-- I need to go home.”

“We’re coming,” Ned says, decided. “Phil was like… immortal.”

Peter furrows his brow, telepathically trying to tell Ned to shut up.

“Except, you know, not,” Ned corrects. “I loved him so much. He was like a father to me.”

Flash stands, rounding the table to pull MJ into a hug. She doesn’t hug back, just stands still, but Peter knows she has no problem shoving Flash away. 

“Guys, come on,” Flash says. 

Peter and Ned get the hint, jumping up to make the hug a roommate affair, tight and claustrophobic.

“My mom booked a flight,” MJ whispers.

“What flight?” Ned asks.

“She got you a seat.” A beat. “You too, Flash.”

Peter finds her eyes through the hug, asking. 

“I got you the seat behind Ned,” she says. 

Peter offers a sad smile, and even though he has his arms around Ned and Flash, cheek pressed against Ned’s shoulder, he squeezes and pulls closer, hoping MJ can feel it. 

He asks, after, when she’s rolling clothes into her suitcase, if she wants him to come. Peter didn’t know her father, not like Ned and Flash did. He hasn’t held any sort of conversation with her mom or the rest of her family, and he doesn’t want to intrude on something intimate and personal. 

MJ tucks a curl behind her ear. “I paid $180 for your ticket.”

“I’ll pay you back.”

“I don’t want your money,” she says, opening her dresser and grabbing a pair of socks with each hand. 

Peter nods. “Okay, but I’ll pay you back.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine.”

This is a flight MJ doesn’t miss. 

She plays musical chairs on the plane until she’s sitting next to Flash across the aisle, giving Peter her seat next to Ned. Peter uses green to mark up his students’ labs, sharing headphones with Ned as they listen to a _Star Wars_ podcast. Peter doesn’t take much in, leaving stray dots on Nim’s paper. He scribbles a note at the bottom of her lab write-up, praising her exemplary work and clarifying that if he didn’t add a comment next to a mark -- especially one that doesn’t look like a clear underline -- it was left there accidentally. 

Leaning forward, Peter glances across the aisle at Flash and MJ. She leans her head back, eyes closed, book open in her lap. 

They rent a car at the airport, Flash driving to MJ’s house after she punches her address into his phone’s GPS. 

Flash mumbles along to the radio, and MJ stares out the window. Ned talks and talks about the time Mr. Jones bought him an unofficial, misprinted Bulls hat that read Chicago Bills. He mentions how Mr. Jones mastered Candyland, never losing once (when Peter asks how, Ned’s summary boils down to one simple truth: Mr. Jones cheated), and how he scared Jehovah’s Witnesses away with a leaf blower. 

Flash turns into the driveway of a small house somewhere on the Southwest Side. It’s identical to the homes lined up on either side of it and stretching down the street. There’s hardly any space between the houses, a thin patch of grass on either side of the concrete driveway. 

The door to the house opens as Flash turns off the ignition. 

A woman who must be Michelle’s mom rushes out, followed by about five different relatives peeking through the doorway. 

Mrs. Jones wraps MJ up in a tight hug. “I’m so glad you’re here, Chelley.”

Her mom is shorter than her, willowy and dark-skinned and beautiful. Michelle’s inherited her cheekbones. 

“Hey, Mom,” MJ says, voice strained from disuse or the force of the hug, Peter doesn’t know.

Ned says, “Hey, Ms. Jones.”

“Ned!” She wraps him up in a similar hug, rocking him back and forth. “Thank you for coming. Phil loved you so much.”

“I loved him, too.”

She greets Flash in much the same way, thanks him for driving, and asks if he needs to be reimbursed for the cost of the rental car. 

MJ snorts. “He could buy this entire neighborhood.”

“Maybe if he did, our street would get plowed promptly during the winter,” she says, turning to face Peter. “And you must be Peter.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Jones.”

She appraises him, eyes narrowed. “Well, let’s get inside.” She turns to Michelle. “The Hudson’s dropped off trays of mostaccioli, the Bassett’s delivered slow cooker tacos, and we have trays of cookies and brownies from the Ortiz family. Sandy makes the best chocolate chip cookies.”

Peter follows along, hands stuffed into his pockets. 

The house feels small with everyone crowded inside: the four of them and Ms. Jones, her sister Anna, Michelle’s sister Gayle, Gayle’s husband Timmy and their two kids. Peter meets Cousin Vinny (“You know, like the movie.”), Uncle Frank, Aunt Sybil and her husband, Uncle Lou. 

Everybody speaks over each other. Uncle Lou insists this is going to be the Cubs’ year, and Uncle Frank points to the door, instructing him to get out of the damn house with that nonsense. “This is Sox territory,” he says. “Accept it or scram.”

Aunt Sybil squeezes Peter’s bicep and rubs her hand along his forearm. He jerks away, accidentally elbowing Flash in the stomach.

“Hey!” she calls. “Chelley finally found herself a real man.”

Uncle Frank scoffs. “With her sour attitude?”

“It’s a miracle, I-- Hey! Kids!” Gayle’s sons bolt through the living room, one of them screaming in aggression, the other in fear, rounding the sofa and diving underneath the coffee table. “No running in Grandma Maddie’s house!”

“Ow!” the one under the table says, crawling out and rubbing his elbow. 

Flash leans in. “You get it now?”

It’s overwhelming. Peter can’t hear himself think, and Aunt Sybil is still standing too close, deep wrinkles around her eyes, age spots dotting her white forehead. There’s something predatory about her gaze that makes Peter lean into Flash. 

“You going to propose to our Chelley? She’s well over marrying age,” Aunt Sybil says. 

“We’re just friends,” Peter answers, smile tight. 

“Haven’t you heard, honey?” Uncle Lou shouts. “30 is the new 20!”

“Tell that to Chelley’s shriveling ovaries!”

“Come on, Peter,” Flash whispers, grabbing Peter’s arm and yanking him past Michelle’s family. “You can thank me later.”

MJ and Ned sit at a round kitchen table, plates overflowing with food, some sauce from the mostaccioli dripping onto the tablecloth from Michelle’s plate. 

“You need to call the funeral home,” Ms. Jones says. 

MJ nods. “Okay.”

“They have some questions about the service, and Gayle is too busy with the boys to call the rest of your father’s friends.”

“Thomas had a fever this morning,” Gayle explains, shaking her head and sighing. “Those two never let me rest, and Timmy is always staying late at the firm. I swear, I feel like a single mother sometimes.”

“Thomas seems okay now,” Peter offers.

All three Jones women look at him, and Ned motions across his neck, grimacing. 

“Who are you?” Gayle asks.

“Peter.”

She tuts. “Okay. Well, they’re my kids, so don’t tell me how they are or aren’t.”

“Sorry.” Peter winces. 

Ms. Jones sighs. “I’m going to take a nap. I haven’t been sleeping well. Wake me up if anyone else drops off a pot of soup.”

“Okay,” MJ says. 

Ms. Jones rests a hand on Michelle’s shoulder as she passes her on her way out of the kitchen.

Peter and Flash shuffle out of her way and further inside. 

“Please grab some food,” Ms. Jones says, presumably to both Peter and Flash, but she only makes the effort to look at Flash. 

“Thanks, Maddie,” Flash says. “If there’s anything you need, just let me know.”

“You’re so sweet, but Michelle’s got it covered.” Ms. Jones smiles, a small, grateful thing. When she blinks, Peter sees wetness behind her eyes, but she holds it in. Pausing at the door, she pivots, rubbing her forehead. She slouches against the archway. “Oh, I almost forgot. Chelley, I need you to write your father’s eulogy.”

“What?” MJ asks. 

“I can’t do it.”

MJ’s eyes are wide, face softening at her mother’s frown. “Sure. Yeah. I can do it.”

Peter raps the knuckles holding the beer against the study’s door, plate of buttered toast in his other hand. 

“I’m busy!” MJ calls in a flustered, tense timbre. 

Peter twists the doorknob open with his pinky. “Hey.”

MJ flips through a packet, every drawer pulled open in the file cabinet behind her. “Peter, I really have 20 things I need to get done.”

“You still need to eat,” he says, gently shutting the door behind him.

“I’m not hungry.” She glances up. “I’ll take the beer.”

“The beer comes with the toast. It’s a package deal.”

She didn’t eat anything at the airport or on the plane. She took a bite of mostaccioli from the plate her mom made her, ate half a taco and a brownie. Peter doesn’t think MJ has even nibbled on anything else all day. 

He understands, but she needs to eat. 

She huffs, tossing the pen down. It clatters against the desk, rolling until it hits the bottom of a picture frame. “I don’t have time. I called the caterers because Gayle wants to make sure there’s green bean casserole, not just green beans. My dad wants the Bears’ mascot at his funeral. Wants? Wanted.” Her brow pinches. “It’s impossible, and I would just give up, except my mom thinks he deserves everything on this stupid list he made.” MJ picks up the corner of the packet, shaking it. “I’m not going to be the reason she cries.”

Peter holds out the beer. MJ stretches to get it, and Peter reaches to give it. 

“I’ve called half of his remaining contacts. A few of them said, “Good,” when I told them he’s dead. One guy hopes he rots in hell, so that’s fun.” She twists the cap off the beer, throwing it next to her pen. “I’m pissed off, and I’m exhausted, and I don’t have time to eat or sleep or do any of it.”

Peter frowns, eyeing the half-empty mug of coffee sitting precariously close to the edge of the desk. “Do you need some help?”

“My mom can’t. Gayle won’t.” MJ leans back in the chair. “Aunt Anna agreed to call the rest of his contacts tomorrow.”

“Is there anything I can do?” 

She squints up at him, sipping her beer. 

Peter bounces on his feet, setting the buttered toast down in front of her. She frowns, scooting the plate halfway off her array of documents. It looks like she has her father’s gambling books open underneath his list of funeral demands. 

“There’s an artery-clogging amount of butter,” Peter offers.

She glances at the toast, carefully picking up a slice before taking a bite. 

He watches MJ chew, swallow, and wipe at the corner of her mouth with her finger. Her movements are deliberate but sluggish, like she has to focus extra hard to get her body to do what she wants. “Good?”

“Yeah,” she admits, sighing. “I’m sorry. Thanks for dinner.”

“You do know it’s almost midnight, right?”

MJ groans, head flopping back. “Shit.”

“You should get some sleep, and I can help sort everything out tomorrow.”

“You really don’t want to do that,” she whispers. To Peter’s relief, she takes another bite of toast. 

“Yeah, I do. Anything you need? I’m on it.”

Michelle eyes him, gaze focusing. She bites at the corner of her mouth. “Okay,” she says slowly. “You can write my dad’s eulogy.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah.” She nods. “You can write his eulogy, and I’ll rent a stupid bear suit from somewhere and hire somebody to wear it and wander around the reception taking pictures with my family.”

“MJ, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Peter says.

“Why not?”

“You need to write the eulogy. I can do the mascot thing.”

“Peter.” She stares at him. She has bags underneath her eyes, and her mouth is pressed into a taut line. Her body is rigid, like she might snap in half. Peter wants to press his thumbs gently under her eyes, tighten the elastic of her ponytail so her hair isn’t on the verge of falling loose, make her laugh and give her a hug, letting her bury her face against his neck.

“Please,” she whispers, voice caught in her throat. “I don’t think I can. I can’t-- I can’t do it.”

MJ blinks, and her eyes get misty the same way her mom’s had in the kitchen. She inhales sharply and presses her palms to her eyelids, careening forward until her arms press against the edge of the desk. 

“Right. Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It was a stupid idea.”

“I’ll do it,” Peter says.

“What?” MJ sits up, rubbing at her eyes and blinking rapidly. “No. It’s okay. I’m sleep deprived. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

Both Peter and May attempted eulogies for Ben, but the loss had been overwhelmingly painful. Peter hadn’t been able to focus, eyes welling at any story told by one of Ben’s coworkers from the electrical company, tears wetting the notebook paper he opened to jot down ideas or memories.

May choked up, sobbing during the opening line of her eulogy. She handed it off to someone else, maybe Mr. Delmar, but Peter can’t remember clearly, too caught up in hugging May, her tears soaking through his suit jacket. 

It’s hard. 

He doesn't want MJ to feel like she has no choice. 

“I’ll write the eulogy for you.” He smiles small. “All you gotta do is eat your toast and then go to sleep.”

A heavy tear leaks out of MJ’s eye, and she bats at it. “Thanks, Peter.”

He glances at the toast meaningfully. 

She rolls her eyes and folds the first slice in half like a piece of New York pizza, the butter melted through and making it malleable. MJ takes another bite. 

He gives her a thumbs up.

Her eyes lighten, some fond exasperation sneaking in. 

Peter feels it, too. 

A little bit lighter. 

Agreeing to write Mr. Jones’s eulogy?

Really stupid. One of the stupidest things Peter has ever done, right up there with attempting to take a screenshot of his cracked phone screen, the molotov cocktail experiments he conducted in his free time during freshman year chemistry, and biting into an ornamental pepper.

He sits on the sofa, shoved between Cousin Vinny and Uncle Lou, notebook propped on his knee. “Any good stories about Mr. Jones?”

Vinny guffaws. “Where do you want us to start? The time he accidentally set Gayle’s hair on fire when he was lighting the candles on her birthday cake?”

“You say accidentally,” Uncle Frank jumps in from the old armchair, the floral fabric sporting various stains. “I think he was pissed that she left her helmet out and he ran it over.”

“He made her earn money by doing chores to pay for a new one, too,” Aunt Sybil says, popping her head in from the kitchen. “That girl rode her bike without a helmet for three months.”

Peter frowns. He’s pretty sure that’s extremely unsafe, and he’s pretty sure saying that outloud isn’t going to be a crowd pleaser. “Um, what were your favorite things about him?”

“He cheated at Scrabble,” Uncle Frank says. “Always did. He’d have a word, and one of his pieces would be a blank, right? No letter.”

Peter nods. 

Uncle Frank leans forward. “Bullshit. You flip that blank over, and there’s an R on the other side or something.”

“Uncle Phil was the best,” Vinny laughs. “He taught me how to play poker; Texas Hold ‘Em. He took all my tooth fairy money.”

“That was fair, though,” Uncle Frank says. 

“Yeah, but Phil was smart. Might have been counting cards,” Uncle Lou offers. 

“Eh,” Uncle Frank says. “Maybe. But Gayle and Michelle get their smarts from Maddie. Phil was clever. Could swindle anybody, but he wouldn’t teach himself to count cards.”

“Aunt Maddie!” Vinny shouts. 

Peter winces. 

Ms. Jones comes through the kitchen doorway, twisting a dish towel in her hands. “If someone brought another lasagna, I’m going to send it back. I already have two in the freezer.” 

“Did you teach Uncle Phil to count cards?” Vinny asks. 

She sighs, her expression reminiscent of MJ trying to deal with Flash while getting ready for a night out. “I taught algebra to high school students.”

“Yes?” Vinny smirks.

“No.” She shakes her head. The affection she has for her late husband seems to radiate off her, her smile sad but warm. “That man did not have the patience to count cards.”

“Ms. Jones?” Peter asks. “What was your favorite thing about your husband?”

She focuses on him, gaze calculating but posture relaxed. “Follow me,” she decides, nodding toward the kitchen. She grabs Aunt Sybil’s pot and towel, shooing her away with instructions to check on her grandkids upstairs. “They’ve been too quiet for too long.”

Peter sits in a kitchen chair, watching Ms. Jones run the dish towel around the pot again before bending to put it back into a cabinet. She folds both towels over, hanging them from the handle across the oven door. “Do you want water?”

“That’d be good. Thanks.”

Ms. Jones grabs two glasses, works some ice cubes out of the tray, and plops four in each glass before filling them with water from the Brita filter. She hands one to Peter, pulling out the chair across from him and sitting down.

Peter takes a greedy sip.

The conversation in the living room picks up; Aunt Sybil, Uncle Lou and Uncle Frank all talking over each other, raising their voices to be heard. They argue like they’re trying to give each other headaches, but Peter senses that if anybody outside of their family criticized any of them, they’d ban together, refocusing their energy on tearing that someone down.

It’s uncomfortable, especially because Peter feels like an outsider. With Flash driving Ned and MJ around and hoping to find an acceptable mascot costume, he has nobody to turn to if he missteps. 

“Why are you here?” Ms. Jones asks. 

Peter blinks. He knows, but Ms. Jones stares at him with hard, judgmental eyes, and his mind whirs, blanks. “I don’t know.”

“I’ve never met you before. You met my husband… one time?”

Peter nods in affirmation when she raises an eyebrow. 

“I don’t need you poking around,” she says. 

“That’s not what I’m trying to do.” Peter splays his palm over his notebook. “MJ asked me to help her with the eulogy. I know I didn’t know Mr. Jones very well, so I’m just… gathering information.”

She tilts her head, considering. 

“Phil liked to gamble too much,” she starts softly. “And he spent as much time at home as he did at race tracks or casinos or trying his hand at the latest get-rich-quick scheme.”

She exhales, tracing the rim of her cup with her finger, looking at the circular motion instead of Peter. “But he loved me. He was a good man. He refused to let go of my hand when people stared, and he always bought us tickets to see one of those Broadway musicals for my birthday. He made sure we had enough money to pay the bills in whatever way he could.”

She swallows, tears welling in her eyes. 

“I know it was hard on Gayle and Chelley. I depended on them too much when their dad was gone. Especially Chelley. She picked up for her sister whenever Gayle was busy with theater or homework or just didn’t want to sweep the floors. I know that.” She glances at Peter, something searching in her eyes. “I know it was hard on her. But she knows how much I love her.”

“She does,” Peter agrees. He’s never sensed anything but love from MJ where her mother is concerned. “She loves you a lot.”

“I know.” Ms. Jones sips her water. “She’s independent. Got that from her dad. Both sides of the family still live around here. Gayle and Timmy bought a house a few blocks down, but not Chelley. She moved to New York and never looked back.” Wiping underneath her eyes, Ms. Jones says, “I miss her.”

“She misses you, too.”

She shakes her head.

“She does,” Peter insists. 

“The required amount,” Ms. Jones concedes. “She does better there. She still feels responsible for me when she’s here. I know I don’t help matters. Old habits are hard to break.”

Peter nods, understanding. He thinks Michelle would do anything her mother asked of her -- aside from getting on the first plane to Christmas. 

“You shouldn’t be writing the eulogy,” Ms. Jones says. 

Peter shrugs. “I know, but MJ asked me to, and I just… she needed someone to help her.”

“That’s good,” Ms. Jones says. “She usually doesn’t ask for help.”

“I insisted,” Peter clarifies. “She didn’t want help.”

Ms. Jones nods, eyes softening. “I have some letters Phil wrote me, picture albums you can use to help with your eulogy.” She pushes her chair back. “The Scrabble story is good, but he was more than that.”

“I know.”

Peter doesn't know that he liked Philip Jones all that much. Resentment still festers for the man who left their apartment before seeing a movie with his daughter. But in those 24 hours, Peter saw enough of MJ in her father to know he wasn’t just a weak, selfish man, even if that was the lasting impression.

Whatever fear and independence her dad possessed, MJ has pieces of it, too. 

“I’ll be right back,” Ms. Jones says. Her eyes are warmer now, like when she asks Flash how he takes his coffee.

Peter clears his throat. “Thanks.”

She turns her head to look at him. “If you mess up my husband’s eulogy, I’ll knee you so hard, you’ll never be able to have children.”

It sounds like a real threat.

“Where’s MJ?” Peter asks.

Flash shrugs. “She said she had last minute stuff to do and would call a car.”

“The funeral starts in ten minutes.”

“Maybe she’s skipping it,” Flash offers. 

Peter blinks. “You’re kidding?”

“Probably?” He frowns. “I don’t know. She had a beer for breakfast.”

“Where’s Ned?” Peter asks, pulling his phone from his pocket. He types a quick message and sends it to Michelle. 

“He’s with Aunt Anna trying to figure out this whole Bears’ mascot thing. They have the costume, but they didn’t find anyone to wear it.”

Peter’s phone vibrates with a response from MJ: _Here._

He sighs in relief, clapping a hand against Flash’s shoulder. “She’s here. Her mom was looking for her, so can you tell Ms. Jones she’s on her way?”

“Yeah, but if I get distracted by one of her hot cousins, then that’s on you.”

Peter groans as Flash wanders down the hall, pausing to introduce himself to a woman and pulling a handkerchief out of his suit jacket. 

Turning, Peter backtracks toward the front of the church just in time to see MJ push open the door. She’s got a bottle of wine in one hand, something cheap with a screw-on cap that she opens as the door slams shut. She takes a long swig.

“MJ,” Peter says. “What are you doing?”

She holds up the bottle, eyes glassy and unfocused. “Drinking. You want some?”

He grabs it from her. “Your dad’s funeral service starts in less than 10 minutes.”

“_Really!?_” she gasps. 

So, sarcasm hasn’t failed her. 

“MJ, come on. Let’s get you some coffee or something.”

She scrunches up her nose, reaching for the wine. Peter grabs her wrist, and she frowns. “Peter.”

“What?”

“I read the eulogy you wrote. I can’t give it. It’s not... He’d hate it. It’s too sentimental. And it’s not me. And I-- I didn’t even like him.”

Peter inhales, handing her the bottle and sliding his hand from her wrist to her palm, lacing his fingers through hers and tugging her along. “Come on.”

“You wrote it like a five-paragraph essay,” she says, stumbling against him. 

“I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“Clearly.” He glances back to see the eyeroll he can hear in her voice.

She’s off-balance, gripping his hand like she might fall over if he lets go. Her breath smells like alcohol, but she’s cognizant enough to mess with him. That’s a good sign. 

He’s never really seen her like this before. Sure, she’s gotten drunk playing True American, speech starting to slur and eyelids heavy. This is different. It’s the pressure of today, the grief she must be feeling, and the eulogy she’s meant to give. 

Peter pushes open the door to the small meeting room where Ms. Jones and Michelle’s aunts dropped off their purses before shaking hands with guests. There’s a half-full pot of coffee, a lukewarm half-and-half carafe, and a paper cup filled with a mixture of sugar and Splenda. 

He pours MJ a cup. “Here.”

“Let’s just hang out here,” she says, taking the coffee from him. 

Peter sighs. “Em.”

“Mom can hold Gayle’s hand.”

“You don’t want to do that.”

“Yes, I do.” She sets the wine bottle and coffee down, sits and discovers how wobbly the chair is, catching herself with a hand on the rickety table, coffee splashing over the side of her styrofoam cup. She blinks, and her glassy eyes grow wet. “I can’t do it. I can’t go out there and lie in front of everybody.”

“I’ll do it for you,” Peter offers, taking the only other chair in the room. 

She presses her palms to her eyelids, groaning. “I know.”

“Okay.” 

When she opens her eyes, she tilts her head back, blinking up at the ceiling and pressing the pads of her fingers underneath them. 

He nudges her coffee closer. 

“That’s the problem, Peter.” She looks at him, eyes dilated. “You would do it, and I can’t let you.” 

“Whatever you want, then.”

She sighs, something akin to a sad laugh. “My family would make fun of you forever if you read that eulogy.”

“I don’t mind,” he says. 

“You should.” Her sad laugh turns into a sad smile. “It doesn’t even feel like he’s gone. He was never around.” She gulps. “But I miss him.”

“It’s okay to miss him.”

“If I go out there, I have to say something, and it might be something bad.”

“MJ, you’re gonna be fine,” Peter says, eyeing her hand, forearm resting against the table. There’s some fake wood paneling covering it, peeling at the edges. She picks at it. “You’ll regret it forever if you stay here. I know you will. You can hold your Mom’s hand, and if you don’t want to say anything? Don’t. Or be honest. Your family knew your dad. Whatever you say, they’ll get it.”

“Not all families are like that,” she mumbles. 

“I’ll understand.”

She looks at him, hand stilling. 

Peter clears his throat. “Ned and Flash, too. Liz, when we get back.”

He watches Michelle’s fingers slide across the table. “What if I get up there and say that my dad was an asshole?”

Peter presses his lips together, pretending to think it over. “Even then.”

“I don’t know. Ned really loved my dad.”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “Wait, why didn’t you have him write the eulogy?”

She smiles. “Ned liked him too much. Nobody would believe I wrote it.”

“Oh.”

“What if I start crying?” she asks. 

“It’s a funeral.”

“I know.”

“People cry all the time at funerals.”

“I know,” she repeats, looking at him.

He gets it. MJ guards her feelings, keeps her vulnerabilities tucked close to her chest. She’d rather be seen as cold than cry in front of her mother’s friends and old co-workers. Access to her heart has to be earned, but Peter knows it’s worth it. Special not only because you have to work for it, but because Michelle’s got a good heart -- the best. 

“Have another sip of coffee, squeeze my hand really hard, and blame it on PMS,” Peter decides. 

She snorts. “My uncles would buy that.”

“Aunt Sybil’s worried you’re going through menopause already, so you have options,” Peter says. 

Michelle laughs, a real thing, crinkling around her eyes. “Thanks, Peter.”

There’s a knock on the door, and Ned opens it without waiting for a response. “Hey! Good, you guys are here. This thing is supposed to be starting, and your mom wants to know where you are.” A beat. “MJ, not Peter. I don’t think she cares about you, Peter.”

“Thanks, Ned,” Peter drawls. 

“We’re coming,” MJ says. “Tell her I had to fix my makeup or something.”

“Got it.” Ned throws a thumbs up their way before closing the door. 

Michelle stands and rolls her shoulders back. She holds out a hand. 

Peter hesitates, but he takes it, allowing her to help pull him up. 

“I’m tipsy,” she shares. 

It sounds like an excuse, but for what, Peter isn’t sure. 

The funeral is fine. 

MJ holds her mom’s hand and doesn’t let go of hers or Peter’s until she stands up to tell a story about her dad learning to braid her hair. The yanking, the yelling, the final, uneven result. It’s a good story.

She doesn’t cry.

Peter wants to tell her he’s proud of her on the ride back to her childhood home.

He doesn’t, just squeezes her hand while she commiserates with Aunt Anna about the Jones side of the family. 

(She grabbed his hand again after her impromptu eulogy. Hasn’t let go.)

(She kept drinking wine during the reception, leaning close to make fun of the people taking pictures with the actor in the bear suit, and Peter reminded himself: she’s tipsy.)

They stumble out of the Jones’s house early the next morning to return the rental car and catch their flight back to New York. The sun is still rising when they say their goodbyes, the sky a fiery red fading into a warm pink. 

“Visit soon,” Ms. Jones says, hugging MJ, same as always. 

“I will.”

“Christmas doesn’t count,” her mom clarifies. 

“Then, I won’t.” MJ squeezes her mom closer. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, smartass. Call me when you get back.”

MJ promises. 

“Remind your mom to call me,” Ms. Jones says to Ned, pulling him in for his hug. “Don’t tell Frank, but I think you’re getting Phil’s baseball cards.”

“Woah, really?” Ned asks, pulling back just enough to make eye contact.

“You were always his favorite to go to games with.”

“Thanks, Aunt Maddie,” he says. 

She hugs Flash, too, asks one more time if he wants to be reimbursed for the rental car. He scoffs and says, “Absolutely not.”

And then it’s Peter’s turn. His roommates climb into the car, Flash and Ned arguing over the radio. 

Ms. Jones squeezes Peter’s arm. “Michelle’s lucky to have you.”

“Oh, no, I just--”

“She is,” Ms. Jones insists. She hugs Peter now, too. Her hair smells like strawberries, and Peter realizes she and MJ must use the same shampoo. “It’s good. She needs someone like you.”

“She doesn’t--”

Ms. Jones pulls back, staring Peter down. She’s firm: “Thank you.”

“I didn’t--”

“Thank you,” she repeats. “She spent so much time taking care of us. It’s good that she has someone to take care of her. We all need that sometimes.”

It’s remarkably similar to what her late husband said to him, so he swallows down his additional protests. “She takes care of me, too.”

Her mom smiles warmly. 

“Flash is threatening to leave without you!” Ned yells. 

“Don’t miss your flight,” Ms. Jones says.

“Thanks. Um, it was nice to meet you.” 

“You, too, Peter.”

He offers a smile and nod before jogging to the car. 

“Was she nice to you?” MJ asks as Peter slams the door shut behind him.

He reaches for his seatbelt. “Yeah, very nice.”

MJ hums, looking out the window.

Her mom’s on the front lawn, holding her cardigan closed with one hand and waving with the other. 

Peter waves back. 

*

The first Monday after school lets out for summer, Peter sleeps in as long as his body will allow, sips on the last of MJ’s pot of coffee, and catches up on episodes of _The Real Housewives of Atlanta_ Flash saved to the cable box. 

It’s MJ’s week to clean the floors, so she works around him, sweeping and then shining with a pungent, lemony scented floor cleaner. Peter helps moves the sofa, and when she’s finished, he offers to make her a sandwich before she leaves for work. 

They eat in silence. 

It’s… fine. 

MJ’s good. 

She seems to be sleeping enough, procured a literary agent for her novel, and she and Peter are on season six of _Criminal Minds_, which is six more seasons than Peter ever planned on watching. 

He thinks about kissing her a lot. 

It’s weird, and it’s terrible, and sometimes she looks at him funny, as though she knows why he zoned out while she was liking the creme off an Oreo. 

She went on a date with somebody named Josh two weeks ago, slept over at his place and then never saw him again. It took Peter a long time to fall asleep that night, but he’d gone for afternoon coffee with Mr. Harrington to discuss finals and the following school year (they’re hiring a new science teacher, and Harrington wanted Peter’s input). Caffeine after two has never really agreed with Peter to begin with.

Everything is normal.

It’s good. 

MJ leaves for her opening shift at the bar, and Peter heads to the gym. 

As he’s leaving, high on endorphins, a woman calls his name. Peter turns, not really knowing what to expect, but he recognizes Marlena instantly. Would recognize her anywhere, and would feel terrible if he didn’t.

“Hey.” He readjusts his gym bag over his shoulder. “How are you?”

“I’m really good.” She smiles, teeth straight and white. Her hair sits in a bun on top of her head, neat like a ballerina’s. “You?”

“Good.”

“You’re a high school teacher?” she asks.

“Yeah. Science at Midtown. What grade did you end up with?”

“Second.” She nods. “Great Oaks in Brooklyn. The kids are always a handful, but they’re good, too. I’m doing some tutoring over break.”

“That’s really great,” Peter says, running a hand through his hair. “It was good to see you again.”

She snaps her water bottle open. “You, too. Would you want to catch up over dinner some time?”

Marlena’s eyes are just as dark and friendly as he remembers from freshman year at ESU. She’s a little thicker around the hips now, tan in a way she hadn’t been during the winter months when he’d known her. She was fun while they dated, taught Peter plenty about a plethora of things -- taking shots (he still hates it), and lesson planning (he’s improved), and having sex (he _really_ hopes he’s improved). He liked her a lot -- thought he loved her, but he knows now that he hadn’t -- and catching up would be nice. 

“Maybe, yeah,” Peter decides.

He fishes his phone out, handing it to her so she can add herself as a contact and send a text from his number. 

She smiles, wide and uninhibited, leaning up on her toes to hug Peter and rest her chin against his shoulder. “I’ll text you.”

He finds her on Facebook, sending a friend request. 

She accepts, and Tuesday afternoon, she asks him to drinks after she and her friends get out of a play. 

She’s single.

Peter cannot tell if it’s meant to be a date or a friendly get-together.

“She took your virginity?” Flash asks, picking at his sweet and sour chicken. 

“Construct,” MJ says. “Jar.”

Flash scoffs. “Fine. She was the first person you ever slept with?”

“Yeah.”

“She wants to hook up,” Flash decides. 

“She might want to trade student horror stories,” Peter counters. “It’s always good to have other teachers to bounce ideas off of.”

“She teaches elementary school, Peter. I’m sure she knows other teachers whose problems are more relevant to her own. She’s not finding condoms in the back of her classroom,” MJ says. 

Peter winces, picking at his chow mein. “I had almost erased that from my memory. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“How was your first time?” Ned asks. “Mine was excellent.”

MJ frowns. “Gross.”

“Just because yours sucked, it doesn’t mean I have to be embarrassed,” Ned counters. “It was our senior prom, and Sandy and I rented a hotel room after. I sang, she played guitar, and then we made love. It was a magical night. Everybody’s dream prom.”

“She didn’t even orgasm,” MJ says.

“She told me she almost did!”

MJ scoffs. 

“You didn’t orgasm your first time, either,” Ned adds.

“Yeah, but I never said it was _magical_. Teddy was nice. He asked if I was okay a lot, and after, while we were still lying there, he told me he thought he was gay.” 

Flash laughs.

“Jar,” Peter says.

“Sorry, sorry,” Flash adds, taking his wallet out. He crumples up a dollar bill, attempts a throw and misses. “I didn’t mean anything bad.” Walking around the table, he picks up the dollar and shoves it into the douchebag jar. “Like, if she thinks that is terrible--”

“--Never said that.”

“--she has no idea what a terrible first time really is.”

MJ, Ned and Peter all look at each other, and then at Flash as he takes his seat again. 

“What?” Flash asks. 

“You can’t just say that and leave us hanging, dude!” Ned says, eyes wide.

“Yes, I can. You guys will just make fun of me.”

“You laughed because Teddy’s gay,” MJ says. She leans back in her chair, moving her foot up and resting her chin on her knee.

“I didn’t say you were so bad in bed that you made him gay.” 

She narrows her eyes. “I know. I knew that, then, too. But it’s not like it didn’t sting, Eugene.”

He huffs, grabbing hot sauce from the table and pouring even more over his rice. “My father set me up with an escort.”

Peter’s eyes practically bulge out of his head.

MJ says, “You can’t be serious.”

Ned says, “Dude!”

Flash stabs at his food. He doesn’t succeed in getting any rice onto his fork, but he does splatter some hot sauce onto the cuffs of his shirt. “I didn’t realize it right away, okay?”

“How?” MJ asks.

“I don’t know!”

“Sorry,” she says. She glances at Peter, smirk across her mouth. “I guess you can take that dollar back.”

“I don’t want it,” Flash says. He stands up abruptly, fiddling with the top button of his dress shirt. “I have to get to the dry cleaners.”

“It’s not your fault!” Ned calls after him. “It was probably the best 10 seconds of her life!”

MJ snorts. “I do feel better.”

“Poor kid,” Ned sighs. “Scarred for life.”

Flash disappears to the dry cleaners, stomping out of the apartment like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. Peter feels kind of bad.

Ned leaves shorty after to finalize the wedding menu with Betty, and Peter and Michelle clean up the kitchen, loading the dishwasher and wiping down the table.

Marlena’s supposed to text Peter after the play, so he has at least an hour to waste. He and MJ settle into her bed, laptop on her thighs, the next episode of _Criminal Minds_ queued up. 

“How was your first time?” MJ asks, finger drawing circles around the keypad, eyes tracing the mouse onscreen.

“What?”

“You never said.” She looks at him from the corner of her eye. 

He shrugs. “It was good. Um, just, you know. We finished a study guide for a test. Her roommate was back home for the weekend. I overthought it, but it was nice.”

“Okay.” She rolls her shoulders back, the curve brushing against Peter’s in the process. “That’s good.”

She turns her head, makes eye contact. 

It’s a long beat, stretchy like warm caramel, sugary and dense. 

Peter watches her blink, lets his eyes fall to the bridge of her nose. He has to really focus to see the smattering of freckles. His gaze drifts, like it does sometimes now. Her mouth is loose, lovely, hint of crooked tooth.

In his periphery, he sees MJ shut her laptop. 

“What are you doing?” he asks. 

“I don’t know.” 

Her eyes are beautiful and burning. 

Peter swallows. “Let’s not overthink it?” 

“Okay,” she says. 

She leans first, but he follows. His nose brushes against hers, and MJ surges forward, kissing him. There’s a hunger to it, the hard press of her mouth, the prod of her tongue. Peter clutches at her arm for balance. 

MJ breaks away, breath warm on his face and then gone, turning to grab her laptop, reaching across Peter’s body to set it on her nightstand, knocking off her sketchbook and a few pencils. When she comes back, she skims her mouth along his jaw, parted and damp, until she meets his lips again. She cups the back of his neck, pulls him in and swings a leg over his. 

Peter’s mind races, catalogs: her neck smells like vanilla, her hair like strawberries, her skin is soft underneath his palms, but her hands are pressing, grabbing, greedy. It feels forced, the way she rucks up his shirt and splays her palm against his abs. 

“MJ,” he says, breaking away from the kiss. 

Her eyes are wide and dark. Her mouth wet and bruised. Her hair is piled into a bun on top of her head like Marlena’s had been at the gym, but MJ’s is messy, curlicue strands escaping the elastic.

Peter wants her. 

It jolts him, hands flexing against her waist. 

But. 

Of course he does. 

They’re attracted to each other. MJ made sure he knew that a long time ago, probably wanted to see him blush and sputter, probably couldn’t have foreseen this. They spent the end of dinner talking about sex, and the only contact Peter’s dick has had in two months has been his hand. 

He likes the way Michelle bites her lip, digs her short, blunt nails against his chest, likes the soft, rapid sound of her breathing.

“Are you sure?” he asks. He wants to reach his hand underneath her baggy T-shirt and find out if she’s wearing a bra. He wants to trace her collarbones.

She steadies her hands on his shoulders, wiggling against him. His dick twitches. 

“Stop thinking,” she says, too breathy to be completely flat.

She kisses him again, trailing her fingers over his skin, twisting her wrist to thumb underneath the waistband of his jeans.

The sex is good.

Unreal. 

Not so good it’s unreal. Really good; _Real_ly good. Stupid, he thinks to himself. His mind kicks on like an old PC, dust whirring out of the noisy fan. 

It’s just that it’s MJ. He knows what it feels like to have her on top of him, clenching around him, chasing something on the horizon after correcting him on the proper way to touch her clit. Peter knows how her damp forehead feels pressed against his own, the taste and sound of her quiet pants. Good and unreal and some other adjectives his brain can’t focus on.

MJ pees after, makes them each a mug of tea, and they’re halfway through the episode they were meant to watch when Marlena’s text comes in. 

Peter feels MJ’s eyes darting over his shoulder like she doesn’t want him to know she’s invading his privacy. When he cancels the tentative drink plans, she relaxes back against the headboard. 

(He’s a little offended that she thinks he might sleep with her before leaving not even 30 minutes later for the possibility of sex with someone else.)

“You okay?” he asks. 

She shushes him, gesturing toward the screen. “Fine.” 

Another one of those quick cuts of her eyes. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Peter doesn’t have an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Main _New Girl_ episodes pulled from: 2x20: Chicago and 2x23: Virgins.


	7. seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Peter sneaks peeks when he thinks she isn’t looking, eyes skirting away when hers begin to shift. Besides hesitating at the door, he can’t spot any tension in her, no sign of being uncomfortable in his presence. _
> 
> _It’s almost like nothing happened between them at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, bitch! Bet you thought you'd seen the last of me. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your patience, your kudos and your comments. I'm sorry it took me this long to finish writing this chapter, and I'm especially sorry to the handful of people who left comments over the last few months who I promised I would update "soon." I had good intentions! Alas.

Peter catches MJ’s eye in the mirror. He tries to smile around his toothbrush but some foam starts leaking around the corners. He panics, spitting into the sink before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

The right side of Michelle’s mouth quirks into a half-smile as she steps around Peter to the other sink. 

“Morning,” he says, turning on the faucet and shoving his hand beneath it.

“Morning.” She nods, opening the medicine cabinet and removing her own tube of toothpaste. 

Peter sneaks peeks when he thinks she isn’t looking, eyes skirting away when hers begin to shift. Besides hesitating at the door, he can’t spot any tension in her, no sign of being uncomfortable in his presence. 

It’s almost like nothing happened between them at all.

But Peter can’t stop thinking about it. He can’t stop thinking about her hands on his shoulders, her breath ghosting along his jaw, the taste of her skin. His stomach clenches, and his cheeks heat up. Looking in the mirror, there’s only a light flush on his face, but if he keeps remembering how it felt to be inside her, it’s going to become incredibly noticeable incredibly soon.

“Are we good?” Peter asks. 

Michelle looks at him. Her eyebrows furrow, and her lips twist as though his words are incoherent. “Um, yeah?”

“Oh. Okay.” Peter swallows. “Good.”

“Are you good?”

“Great!” It comes out overly enthusiastic, squeaky and weird. 

“You sure?” MJ asks. 

She seems totally fine. Her shoulders are relaxed, and her eyes are clear, and she hasn’t mentioned sleeping together. After, they watched two episodes of _Criminal Minds_, and then he shuffled across the hall, staring at the cracks in his ceiling all night.

Peter can’t decide if talking about it makes it weird or if not talking about it makes it weird. 

He figures he’ll just follow Michelle’s lead for fear of putting his foot in his mouth and making her uncomfortable.

They’re friends. They’re roommates. And if this thing between them goes sideways, it’ll ruin the loft’s dynamic. It could ruin their relationship. Even the thought spreads an icy cold through Peter’s chest. Michelle’s become an inextricable part of his life. He could draw a line through it, a before and after, a settled sort of happiness and comfort he didn’t have when he was with Felicia. 

He loves MJ. 

Peter recalls his conversation with May, urging him to act on that love, to consider it as something other than platonic. He remembers MJ kissing him, a result of a poorly conceived game of True American. And now he’s slept with her because of a stupid conversation about the social construct of virginity -- MJ’s clarification ringing in his head -- and hormones. 

He vows not to let any other base impulses affect their friendship.

And she seems completely, totally fine. Chill, even. 

“I’m sure,” Peter says. 

Sure. 

Yep. 

He can be chill, too.

Ned stares at the array of takeout menus spread across the table, shifting from Thai to Korean to American. “I don’t know,” he says. “Pizza might be easiest.”

“How is that easiest?” MJ asks.

“Everybody likes pizza.”

“You and Flash ordered pizza at two in the morning and then woke me up because you didn’t have enough cash to pay for it.”

“At least we didn’t take the money out of the douchebag jar,” Flash says. 

“So you want pizza now, too?” Michelle asks, eyes cutting to him. 

Flash scoffs. “No. I want wagyu.”

“With the wedding coming up, I can’t spend $50 on takeout from a place with tiny portions,” Ned says. “Besides, their food sucks.”

“It does not _suck_.” Flash gasps, offended. “It’s not my fault you three have the undiscerning palates of Central Park geese.”

“Jar,” Michelle says.

He grumbles, reaching for his wallet, tossing a crumpled dollar bill into the douchebag jar, and cheering when it actually goes in. “Yes!” He holds his hand up for a high five, looking expectantly at Peter. 

Peter frowns, but he pats his palm against Flash’s. 

“What do you think, Pete?” Ned asks. He cocks his head in a way that clearly communicates they’re on the same team. 

And they are. Peter’s teacher’s salary doesn’t gel with the Michelin star restaurant Flash wants. The last (and only) time they ordered there, Peter was out $65 and he didn’t even like his food. Michelle is committed to sushi, but raw fish freaks Peter out. He likes pizza. It’s classic for a reason. And if he agrees, Ned will totally back him up when he suggests they watch _Space Jam_.

He wants pizza. 

But Michelle looks at him, eyes narrowed and mouth slanted. Her hair is pulled into a low ponytail, a little frizzy from the humidity. She tilts her head, but unlike Ned, there’s no suggestion of cahoots. If he didn’t know her, it might come across as vaguely threatening. But Peter does know her. He knows the little arch of her eyebrow, knows it’s just MJ, just asking him to consider. 

“Um, sushi could be something different.”

“Huh?” Ned asks. 

“Nice!” Flash thumps Peter on the back in an attempt to be supportive. He hits too hard, and it’s almost painful. “Penis finally going to know what vagina tastes like.”

Ned says, “Jar.”

Peter flushes bright red, says, “Jar.”

MJ says, “Put that 50 you were waving around in the jar, asshole.”

“It wasn’t an insult. I like sushi,” Flash defends. “And vagina!”

“We’re not getting sushi,” Ned says.

“Peter just said he wants sushi,” MJ counters.

Ned shakes his head. “No, he didn’t.”

MJ hums, making eye contact, and the hope in her irises swirls around Peter’s gut. To be fair, he’s never given sushi a chance, it’s much more affordable than Flash’s option, and there’s vegetable sushi, so he can always order that. 

“Um, yeah, sushi is good. I think we should get sushi.”

MJ’s mouth twitches with a smile, and Peter returns a brighter one. 

“You don’t like sushi,” Ned says, looking back and forth between Peter and Michelle. His forehead wrinkles, and then: “Oh my god.”

“What?” Flash asks.

“Yeah, what’s going on?” Ned sits up straight, gaze becoming more focused, suspicious. 

“Nothing,” MJ says.

“Wait,” Flash begins, following Ned’s lead of trying to laser Peter and MJ with his eyes. “I could cut the sexual tension with a knife.”

“What happened between you two?” Ned asks. 

Peter says, “Nothing,” just like MJ did five seconds ago. 

Except she says, “We slept together,” tone flat and bored. 

Ned says, “What!?”

“The fuck?!” Flash says. 

Peter feels his face heat up again, his entire body shifting to look directly at MJ. “What?”

“We did.” She shrugs, mouth pressed thin. 

“That’s against the rules,” Flash hisses, leaning forward. “I can’t believe you! If anyone was going to break the rules, it was supposed to be me.”

Michelle rolls her eyes. “I didn’t do anything wrong. It was a stupid idea, anyway.”

“Sleeping with Parker? Yeah, I’ll bet.”

“Hey!” Peter protests. 

“No offense,” Flash throws out, glib, with barely a glance in Peter’s direction, eyes still boring into MJ. 

Peter wonders if Flash likes her. It shivers down his spine.

“You signed the contract, so it doesn’t matter if you think it was stupid. You’re still in violation of the roommate oath,” Flash says. 

“Wait, what contract?” Peter asks, looking around the table.

“Oh, she didn’t tell you?” Flash’s voice vibrates, tense and tight and manic. 

Peter furrows his eyebrows. “No?” 

“We signed a contract when you moved in,” Ned offers, eyes flitting around, sheepish. 

“The lease?” Peter asks, baffled. It seemed pretty standard: the rent he was meant to pay every month, when it would expire, the usual.

“No,” Ned says. “We wrote it ourselves, the three of us. It was a pact of sorts.”

“I’m confused.”

Ned sighs, embarrassment managing to flush his skin.

“Here,” Flash says, half-pissed and half-smug, sliding his phone across the table. 

Peter scans the document. He blinks, bringing the screen closer to his face. He blinks again. It feels like being hit with a wave of ice water, his chest going cold, his nerve endings shocked. “A no-nail oath?” 

“Yeah.” Flash nods. He actually points his finger at Michelle. “And she broke it.”

Michelle slumps in her chair, arms crossed over her chest and eyes glued to the table. Her mouth small and flat, an almost frown at the corners. She glances up at Flash, then Ned, but her eyes don’t drift toward Peter. 

“What?” Peter asks, still trying to process what this means, brain frozen.

“None of us were supposed to sleep with you in order to keep the peace,” Flash says. 

“I didn’t ever want to sleep with you,” Ned adds, quick.

Peter would be offended, except he doesn’t want to sleep with Ned, either (he’s become a brother), and MJ still hasn’t looked at him. 

“Sleeping with a roommate ruins the entire loft dynamic! It’s going to be weird, with all your stupid, sticky sexual tension just dripping all over the place. It’s going to make Ned and I uncomfortable! But did you hornballs think of that? No, of course not. And when MJ inevitably gets tired of you because abs can only distract her from the nerd of it all for so long, it’s going to be unbearable,” Flash says.

“Shut up,” MJ mutters.

“Yeah,” Peter says. His throat is dry. 

Flash has a point, but it hurts having someone else verbalize Peter’s own worst fears. They feel even more probable now, like maybe he’s already got the ball rolling and there’s no time to stop it before it ricochets off the edge of the cliff. 

Peter says: “You have nothing to worry about. It was one moment of weakness, okay? It didn’t mean anything.”

MJ’s head snaps up. She finally looks at him, eyes wide. “You’re such a fucking dick.”

Her chair scrapes as she pushes it back, storming out of the room, slamming her bedroom door. 

“Jesus, this is exactly what I meant,” Flash says. 

“You’re just peeved he slept with MJ instead of you,” Ned offers, an attempt at humor that might land under different circumstances. 

“Gross.” Flash grimaces. 

“A no-nail oath?” Peter asks again. “Like just because she’s a girl I wouldn’t be able to help myself?”

Ned frowns. “Peter, come on, dude.”

“You really think that little of me?”

Flash scoffs. “Nobody was worried about you. We were worried about her.”

“Do you think she’s okay?” Peter asks, which is, admittedly, a stupid question.

“You’re not this dumb, are you?” Flash’s words aren’t mean or harsh; they’re caked in concern.

Peter glances down the hall, wondering if he should talk to her now or wait until later. “She’s upset.” 

Ned and Flash exchange a look that curdles in Peter’s stomach.

“She’s in love with you,” Ned says. 

Peter stops breathing. His heart flops into his throat. All the embarrassed heat drains from his face, pooling in his stomach. 

That’s not… possible. Is it? 

“That’s not…” he starts, unable to finish the thought out loud.

“It is,” Flash says, rolling his eyes. “You spend more time in her bed than Harry ever did.”

Peter feels sick. Not because MJ isn’t great, but because she’s so much more than that. He didn’t miss everything, did he? No. 

There was attraction, and they acknowledged it, and they mostly ignored it. He likes her. He loves hers. They’re friends. But--

“Breathe,” Ned says. He coaches an exaggerated in-and-out that Peter ignores. 

He can’t focus, eyes blurry, head rushing, trying to reevaluate the last two years of his life, recontextualize his relationship with Michelle but finding he can’t. It feels untrue to turn it into something it wasn’t, even if it’s something it always was, too. “This isn’t funny.”

“It’s really not,” Flash agrees despondently.“Apologize. Squash whatever gross sexual tension remains. And if you two make this loft unlivable, you’re paying your rent through the end of your lease but moving out.”

“What?” Peter gapes.

“She’s our best friend.”

Ned nods solemnly. “We can’t kick her out.”

“What?” Peter repeats. He feels weird, pressing his feet flat against the floor, attempting to ground himself. Is this what an out-of-body experience is like? It’s disorienting and awful, guilt webbing itself around his rib cage. “She can’t be…”

“She is,” Ned says.

Flash’s forehead wrinkles. “You think I like you more than MJ?” 

“That’s not what he’s talking about,” Ned answers, mouth twisted down, all sympathy. He looks at Peter, open and honest and terrifying. “She’s been in love with you since the moment you walked through the door.”

That’s not true.

Peter _knows_ that’s not true. 

Michelle doesn’t believe in love at first sight, and neither does Peter. Not really. You cannot be in love with someone you don’t know, not the real, deep, sustainable kind. That knowledge doesn’t curb his romantic tendencies. Peter saw the sun glint off Felicia’s hair, the almost white of her blonde producing a halo effect, and he knew she was The One.

She wasn’t. 

Liz offered him a piece of chalk when his last color had ground too finely, sidewalk rough against his fingers. She had a gap in her wide smile where she’d lost her first tooth, and he was sure she’d be his best friend. 

She is, always will be. 

Peter needs to talk to MJ because Flash and Ned are being dramatic, filling his head with a sliding scale of truths and lies.

“I’m going to… yeah…” Peter gestures toward MJ’s room. He can’t wait. It’s selfish, but he doesn’t know what happened, and if he sits with it, with a third-party account of her feelings, he’s going to spiral. 

“If you break her heart, I’ll kill you,” Flash says, a soft disappointment on his face like he really doesn’t want Peter’s blood on his hands. “Hire someone to kill you, but you get.”

Peter stands, fear tightening in his chest.

“Peter?” Ned calls.

He turns around, hoping for advice.

All Ned says is: “We love you, too.”

Flash doesn’t dispute the claim, and instead of the reassuring encouragement it’s meant to be, a new wave of anxiety spikes in Peter’s blood. 

He reaches MJ’s closed door, exhaling and running a hand through his hair. “Hey MJ,” he whispers to himself. His voice shakes, and his stomach rolls, and he flexes his fingers. 

“You can do this,” he whispers.

“Are you okay?” he rehearses uselessly. “Flash and Ned said the most ridiculous thing.”

_Shit_.

Shit, shit, shit. 

He knocks on her door before he psyches himself out.

“Come in, Peter,” MJ says, monotone. 

He takes a deep breath, twisting the handle. 

Michelle sits on her bed, legs crossed at the ankles, book open in her lap. 

Closing the door behind him, Peter says, “I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” MJ counters, reinserting her bookmark -- a Duane Reade receipt. “I overreacted. You’re right. We’re adults, and we had sex. It wasn’t a big deal.”

She looks small, as though he’s watching her from a distance. Her face is blank, body rigid, and he can’t read her eyes. She tucks a stray curl behind her ear.

“It was a big deal.” Peter swallows, heart plummeting. “It meant something to me.”

“It did?” she asks, quiet. 

“Yeah. You mean something to me, MJ. You’re my best friend.”

“Right.”

Peter sits on the edge of her bed, movements hesitant and disjointed. “We messed up.”

“Please leave,” she whispers, staring down at her book. 

“I can’t.”

She traces her finger over the cover, the text of the title slightly elevated. “Why not?” 

“Flash and Ned will evict me.”

A joke. 

He doesn’t expect Michelle to laugh. Maybe huff, annoyed. Or glance up at him, rolling her eyes. He hopes she might have a retort about how Peter already renewed his lease. Instead, she bites her lip, squeezing her eyes shut. Her body crumples with a shaky inhale. 

“Bad joke,” he rushes, reaching for her hand. 

She jerks away. “You’re making this really hard.”

“I’m sorry.”

When Michelle looks at him, her eyes are unmistakably wet. “I know I’m not the most open person, but I thought you understood.”

“Understood what?” Peter asks.

He wishes Flash and Ned hadn’t said anything, because instead of confusion or curiosity, Peter braces himself for an answer that’s going to hurt. He doesn’t know whether he wants her to love him or if he hopes she doesn’t. 

She shakes her head. “You keep sending me mixed signals.”

“We slept together and you acted like nothing happened.”

“You didn’t say anything, either,” she says. “I was vulnerable with you, and I let you in, and I was stupid to think you were any different.”

“Different from what?” Peter’s eyebrows furrow. 

“You’re exactly like Harry.”

“No, I’m not.” His body goes hot in disbelief. “Harry was an asshole.”

“You didn’t even know him.”

“I know that!”

“Then why did you sleep with me when you don’t even like me?” 

Peter blinks and his eyes blur. “You’re my best friend.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” MJ rolls her eyes now, but there’s nothing fond about her exasperation or the tear she brushes away before it can fall. 

“Why did you sleep with me?” Peter asks.

“Because I really like you.”

It lands heavy between them, a raw, alive, beating thing, and he knows Michelle well enough to know it’s her heart. 

A tear falls, and then another. Her bottom lip trembles so she tucks it in her mouth. She doesn’t look away. 

Peter loves her. 

He does. 

He wants to wipe her tears away and hold her hand. He wants his shoulder brushing against hers while they watch an episode of _Criminal Minds_, as she tells him exactly who the unsub is within the first 15 minutes. He wants to try sushi with her and take her to a Mets game and buy her an ice cream churro sandwich. He wants to read every draft of her book.

Michelle cries, breaths shaky and quiet, and Peter knows none of that is possible if they keep doing what they’re doing.

“You mean too much to me, MJ,” he says. “I can’t risk it. I’m so sorry I’ve hurt you.”

She nods. “Okay.”

“I really do love you.”

“Please don’t.” The sound chokes out of her throat.

“I’m sorry,” Peter repeats. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Yes.”

“Can I give you a hug first?”

“No.”

Peter’s heart splits, a before and an after.

He made the decision, and he doesn’t get to choose how Michelle responds. He ignored what was between them until it snapped. He can’t consider how this could have gone if he hadn’t been afraid to hurt her, if he hadn’t shut his eyes because he thought he was protecting their relationship. 

He prays he is now.

There’s an early union meeting in preparation for the fall semester, so Peter sits at the counter with Ned, inhaling a bowl of cereal, when Michelle wanders in.

Peter hasn’t seen her in three days.

He misses her, but he wants to respect her space. 

“Hi,” she says before filling the kettle. 

Her hair is down, brushing past her shoulders. She wears a floral sundress that swishes around her knees, and her skin is bright and lovely, mouth small as she putters around the kitchen, unearthing an earl gray tea bag and placing it into a to-go thermos. 

“Where’re you going?” Ned asks, muffled around a bite of waffle. 

“The park.”

“Cool.”

“Are you meeting someone?” Peter asks. He scoops some milk onto his spoon, tilting it so the two percent flows back down like a waterslide. 

“Yeah.”

She turns, riffling through a cabinet until she finds a protein bar, the kettle beginning to rattle on the stove. 

“Who?”

She shrugs, peeling the wrapper. “Liz, Lian and some guy.”

Ned goes bug-eyed, nodding Peter toward Michelle. Peter looks back, just as bug-eyed, shaking his head. Absolutely not. He is not going to ask her if the guy is cute, or if it’s a date, or if she wants it to be a date.

He feels awkward enough as it is.

“I hope you have fun.”

“Thanks.” 

She bites into her protein bar, a few crumbs falling to the floor. The kettle whistles, and MJ turns to grab it, pouring hot water into her thermos before screwing on the cap. “Well, I gotta go. Don’t want to be late.”

Ned waits exactly one second after the door clicks shut to slap Peter’s arm. “Dude!”

“Ow,” Peter hisses, rubbing the wound even though it doesn't hurt. 

“What was that?” Ned asks. 

“She’s probably going to walk through the park with Liz and Lian?”

Ned rolls his eyes. “And some guy? You’re totally fine with that?”

“Yeah.” 

He isn’t really sure if he’s fine with it, but he has no right not to be. Peter turned Michelle down, and if she wants to go on a date that Liz set up (wait? Is the guy one of her model friends? Because that’s really-- Nevermind), he can’t stop her. He won’t. 

And if she’s totally over whatever she felt for him after three days, then he definitely made the right decision. 

“Okay.” Ned eyes Peter as he sips his coffee. “But it’s okay if you’re not fine with it.”

Sighing, Peter rubs at the back of his neck. Truthfully, he feels not great. But he knows he and Michelle can recover from this. They can move on and stay friends and he won’t lose one of the most important people in his life. That wasn’t a guarantee if they tried to be together and failed.

Three days later, and she has a date. 

It’s fine. 

“I’m fine,” Peter says. 

Ned tilts his head sympathetically, shooting Peter a sad, little smile. 

“She’s fine.” Peter motions toward the door. “So, it’s all good. No reason for anyone to be kicked out of the apartment.”

Ned hums, clearly unconvinced. 

“I want her to be happy.” Even if the decision not to pursue something with MJ broke a safe illusion Peter was clinging onto, even if he feels like he gave something up. Even if it means she didn’t like him as much as Flash and Ned led him to believe. He wants her to be happy. 

Falling asleep has been difficult, Peter’s mind racing, stomach knotted, keenly aware of every creaking floorboard. His head turning whenever Flash or Ned or Betty walk by as he shovels down quick meals and barely pays attention to whatever rerun plays on the television. He can’t think about MJ, and he can’t not think about MJ. 

Flash brought her sushi after Peter left her room. She didn’t go to work the next night. Peter knows because he camped out on the sofa, selfishly hoping for reassurance that she was okay, that she could forgive him. 

Peter can’t make sense of the conversation they had and the person who emerged three days later, but maybe it’s for the best. He can carry the confusion and the pain and the loss, and Michelle can go on dates with models and let it roll off her shoulders, simple and easy. 

“I do, too,” Ned says. He gives Peter’s back a comforting rub. “And I want you to be happy.”

He texts Liz:_Did you set MJ up on a date?_

_Peter, I love you, but you’re an idiot_ comes back less than two minutes later.

Loft movie night is totally fine. Completely normal. Absolutely no tension or awkwardness. 

MJ lounges next to Flash, tucked into the corner of the couch, sharing Cheetos. Her phone rests on her thigh, and every few minutes she picks it up, typing something. 

Peter half-pays attention to the movie, two friends yelling at each other, _“You made your own bed.”_

_“And you fucking slept in it.”_

Ned picked the movie. It feels pointed, and Peter bristles, rolling his neck. 

MJ’s face is still blank, calmly watching with no reaction. Her palm splays across the back of her phone, and she says something to Flash that makes him snort. 

Pushing up, Peter walks around the back of the couch to the kitchen, rinsing his beer bottle before setting it in the recycling, too consumed with MJ’s nonchalance and Ned’s obvious attempt to meddle that he doesn’t notice the movie has been paused until he turns around, fully intending to ditch.

“Keep watching. I promised May I’d call her.”

“May’s at the movies with Happy,” Ned says. 

“How do you know that?”

“We talk.”

Peter sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’m really tired, guys. I’m gonna head to bed.”

“It’s not even nine,” Flash says. 

MJ looks up from her phone. “There’s not much left.”

“It’s okay. I’m not interested.”

“It’s roommate movie night,” Flash protests. “I didn’t want to watch this boring movie, either, but it’s finally getting interesting.”

Ned eyes Peter, knowingly and annoyingly. 

“If this is about you and MJ,” Flash continues, no tact. 

“No,” Peter protests.

“We’re fine,” MJ says, thumbing over her phone screen. 

“She’s fine,” Peter repeats, and because he cannot make a clean escape, his voice cracks.

Flash groans, swiping a hand across his face.

Michelle looks at Peter, a deep, excavating thing, mouth twisting down. Her forehead wrinkles, and he cannot read her. It feels like they stepped back too far, but MJ’s been fine, polite. Polite isn’t quite friendly, but he doesn’t really want friendly, anyway. It’s a moot point, because he cannot say anything about MJ being nice, almost normal. Fine. 

She’s brought home a parade of guys over the last few weeks, each one questionable if you ask Peter, but nobody’s asking Peter. 

“It’s just a little hard for me, okay?” he says, because he’s embarrassed himself enough, and he wants to get it over with.

“What is?” Ned asks.

Peter’s eyes find MJ’s, hoping for some kind of clarity. “Something happened between us. And I’m not okay about it. I feel awful, and I get that I’m the only one who isn’t okay. I don’t want you to _not_ be okay. But it’s hard being alone here.” Here: this situation. Here: missing her. 

“You’re not,” she says, voice scratchy, clearing her throat. “I’m not okay, either.”

“No?” Peter’s heart squeezes in his chest. It’s better, and it’s worse, and his shoulders loosen in an odd, terrible kind of relief. 

Michelle blinks back some sadness. “No.” 

“It’s going to take time,” Flash offers.

“That’s really wise, man,” Ned says.

“Thanks.” Flash nods, throwing his fist out. Ned bumps it.

Michelle’s expression thaws, a bit more open. She slides her phone onto the coffee table, shifting, looking at Peter over the back of the couch. “I didn’t want it to be weird.”

“It’s gonna be weird, though. Isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

Ned sadly awws, and Flash says, “Hug it out you two.”

MJ rolls her eyes. “I think we’re good.”

“No. Uh-uh. I don’t want any lingering ish.” Flash pushes at MJ’s arm and she lets her body tilt with it. “Go hug it out.”

“Thought it was going to take a while?” she says, already standing up.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I want your depressing post-sex vibes oozing all over the place.” 

MJ takes a deep breath before she hugs Peter. Her body is soft and warm, and Peter freezes before wrapping his arms around her, inhaling the lingering strawberry scent of her shampoo. A hiccup pulses in his chest, and he closes his eyes to avoid crying. 

It’s never going to be the same. They’re never going back to normal.

“Finish the movie,” he whispers.

He feels MJ slacken in his arms before pulling back. The tears in her eyes are reflected in his own. When she blinks, her eyelashes are wet. “You, too,” she says.

“I’m tired.” Peter rubs his eyes to prove his point as much as to excuse the redness he’s sure she can see. 

“I’ll let it slide this time, Parker,” Flash says, more empathy and understanding coloring his expression than Peter’s ever seen. 

Ned shoots Peter a chagrined smile. “Night.”

“Goodnight.” Peter ducks his head, easily forgiving Ned for his pointed, unsubtle choice in film.

Michelle continues to be polite, and it continues to pinch at Peter’s lungs. He shuffles around her to get to the bathroom sink, offers to rinse out her mug when she’s editing at the table, asks how her night was when she returns from an opening shift at the bar. She returns little smiles, says thank you, it was a slow night and she didn’t make as much as she hoped.

She continues to bring home questionable men, and she continues not telling Peter about it. 

He wishes she would. He wishes they could laugh, and she could rank them, which of the men stayed over and which of them snored and which of them she liked best. He wishes he felt like he was still part of her life, like he was still her friend.

Peter wanted to save their relationship, but as every new day passes, he worries it backfired.

*

Peter picks at his styrofoam cup, grounds of coffee stuck at the bottom. 

“I told Harrington I didn’t want all my free periods at the end of the day,” Zoha sighs, leaning back in her chair. She startles, pitching forward, hand on the table. The chairs aren’t as solid as they appear. 

“At least it leaves you plenty of time to cry at your desk,” Peter says. 

“I don’t cry on school grounds.”

“Understandable.”

Peter has cried in the science department’s small excuse for a workroom, his own classroom, the teacher’s lounge, and on the subway home from work -- not school property, but linked closely enough. His tears have lessened over time, but some weeks are stressful. Last autumn, before reaching the workroom, he broke down in the classroom where Mr. Harrington’s genetics section was about to begin. 

Mr. Harrington understood, leaving the wily students with free reign of the room while he walked Peter to the teacher’s lounge, attempting (and failing) to block Peter from the kids. He made a mean (disgusting) cup of tea, and told Peter to take all the time he needed -- it was his planning period, after all. 

Zoha leans sideways, staring at the door. “The new teacher’s here.”

“I think she’ll be really…” Peter says, trailing off. 

Over the summer, he reviewed applications and resumes with Mr. Harrington. Ms. Stacy is overqualified, coming to teaching after doing research in the private sector, and she wrote the best cover letter Peter has ever read. 

And, turns out, she’s gorgeous. Like, drop dead. 

Her black headband holds blonde hair away from her face even as it curls in around her collarbones. Her cerulean eyes are crystal like a clear ocean, rippling over her new coworkers, pink mouth set naturally in a peaceful curve. An approachable aura surrounds her, but something about her posture suggests she is far from a pushover. 

Peter likes her instantly and is instantly aware that he should not like her. He swivels back around.

“New girl!” Zoha calls, waving emphatically. 

Ms. Stacy muffles a laugh in her throat. “Gwen,” she corrects, holding out her hand. 

“Zoha.” They shake. “I teach freshman research and physics.”

“Biology.” Gwen pivots to Peter, hand resting on the back of the chair between them. 

“I’m Peter,” he introduces, wiping his palm on his jeans before offering it. “Chemistry.”

“I feel it.” Her mouth turns into an amiable smirk as she pulls out the chair and takes a seat. 

Peter feels the flush collecting in his cheeks. 

Zoha’s eyebrows shoot up her hairline. “You’re going to fit right in.”

“I hope so. Everyone seems really nice.”

“As long as you avoid the art department you’ll be good. They’re fine, just a little gossipy,” Zoha says. 

“Sounds like I should get in there, then. No better way to get the lay of the land and keep the rumors about bay.” Gwen’s friendly smile is still etched along her mouth, a permanent fixture, cushioning her words. 

“You don’t need them,” Zoha laughs. “I can tell.”

Peter can tell, too. There’s something about her. He can’t pinpoint it. Charisma, maybe. A soft, affable, pretty lure. They’re all nerds here, but Gwen feels like a popular kid, the one who was kind enough to everyone to make up for all her friends’ lack. 

“Attention!” Mr. Harrington calls from the front. “If you can hear me clap once!” 

_Clap_. 

“If you can hear me clap twice!”

Everyone has already stopped talking, attention zeroed in on their boss, the singular clap ringing around the space in unison. 

They clap twice, anyway. 

“If you can hear me clap thrice!”

_Clap. Clap. Clap_. 

“Thanks, everyone. I’m glad you could all join me for our super fun, mandatory meeting. We had an, ahem, issue at the end of last school year, so we’re going to go over interpersonal relationships among faculty and staff.”

Zoha leans close to Gwen. “A history teacher gave a PE teacher and the nurse the clap.”

“You learn that from the art department?” Gwen shoots back.

“The nurse’s angry Facebook post.”

Harrington clears his throat. “It’s very important to make sure all parties involved know what they’re getting into when pursuing more than platonic relationships. There are forms with Nancy in HR. Please talk with Nancy in HR before approaching a coworker about a more than platonic relationship, because I am not qualified to handle it or paid enough to decide if the length of a hug suggests romantic interest or not. I would actually recommend you avoid hugging your coworkers, because bits and parts could touch.”

His voice is scratchy and slightly shaky, hands clasped together, body stiff. 

“I need two volunteers for a demonstration,” he continues, beady eyes surveying the science department. 

Peter’s head shifts down, but Mr. Harrington calls on him anyway, so he shuffles to the front of the room.

“Someone else, please,” Mr. Harrington says. 

Gwen pushes her chair back. “I’ll do it.”

Peter swallows. 

“Excellent. Thank you, Gwen. Everybody, this is Gwen Stacy. She’s our new biology teacher, and she’ll be taking over all three AP sections. Her references are spectacular, the students are going to learn so much, and as you can tell,” he pauses, gesturing to where she stands next to Peter, “she’s a team player.”

“Thanks, Roger.” Gwen tucks a piece of hair behind her ear.

It’s a really nice ear, lovely curve, two little, gold studs emphasizing the lobe.

Peter has got to get a grip. 

Rolling his shoulders back, he forces his gaze toward his other colleagues. Zoha cocks her head, excitement in her eyes. Peter looks away, redirecting his focus toward Zach and Debra. 

Mr. Harrington smacks his hands together, and Peter flinches. “Okay, so let’s have Gwen approach Peter in the library.”

Peter stares straight ahead.

“Hey, Peter!” 

He stays stock still. 

Mr. Harrington says, “You should greet her.”

Gwen says, “Helloooooo?”

Exhaling, Peter spins to look at her, throwing his arm out. “Hello, Ms. Stacy.”

“Please, call me Gwen.”

When she shakes Peter’s hand, his elbow locks.

“You seem a little tense,” she says. 

He clears his throat. “No, no, I’m fine.”

“We could grab a drink after work and talk about it?” Her words have a soft, sincere quality, and Peter almost believes she’s actually offering. 

He wants her to be offering just as much as he knows she cannot be offering. 

She’s not really asking him out, right?

“That’s probably against the rules,” he decides, eyes cutting to Mr. Harrington.

“Roger, we’re allowed to go out for friendly drinks after work, right?” Gwen asks.

He picks up a packet as thick as a binder, flipping through it. “As long as nobody feels pressured into it, yes, that is correct.”

“Great.”

Despite rudely refusing to make eye contact, Peter feels her focus back on him. Shifting his weight to his heels, he says, “Maybe some other time.”

“It’s an open-ended offer.” Her voice chimes, imbued with delight and something real that tingles along Peter’s spine, spreading a vibrant exhilaration through his chest. 

Gwen adds: “No pressure,” with a wink. 

Peter’s heart somersaults, and he can’t help the smile he shoots her, a hesitant thing. “I’ll think about it.”

While Mr. Harrington asks the science department to break down Peter and Gwen’s scene (Peter should learn how to bend his elbow, Gwen’s wink was weird, it’s good that nobody touched anybody else’s butt), she slips him her phone number on the back of scratch paper, Dewey Decimals scribbled on the other side. 

Peter looks the code up on his lonely subway ride back to the loft. It’s the classification for science fiction. If he let himself, Peter could really, really like Gwen. If he doesn’t let himself, he might still really, really like her. 

Peter braces himself as the train jerks to a stop.

Squinting at Betty’s blocky, neat handwriting, Peter scrutinizes the three seating chart options for the wedding.

“They all look good,” he says, scanning the last chart for his name. It’s printed at the same table as it is on the other two. He doesn’t know Ned’s extended family or most of Betty’s friends, so he doesn’t know whether Cindy and Sally should sit next to Cousin Anton and Janika, or Betty’s coworkers, Shelly and Simon. 

Betty huffs. “That’s not helpful.”

“I’ve never met most of these people.”

“I think chart B, babe,” Ned suggests.

Pursing her lips, Betty traces one of the round tables on the outskirts of said chart. “Do you think Rita and Bill will have moved on from the baby shower drama by the wedding?”

“If they haven’t, maybe they shouldn’t be allowed at the wedding.”

She hums like she’s actually considering revoking invitations. “Peter, are you still bringing a plus one?”

Ned says, “Yes.”

Peter says, “I don’t know.”

Betty glances at him. “Gwen?”

“Ned,” Peter hisses.

“What? Betty is my future wife! One flesh, one blood, what I know, she knows.”

“Gwen and I aren’t going to be anything other than friendly colleagues,” Peter says. 

With Gwen’s advice, he’s improved upon his single section of physics despite the fact that she teaches biology (read: no physics). Every Friday she drops off freshly baked pastries at the teacher’s lounge: brownies with walnuts, chocolate chip muffins, cherry strudel. She hung a flier for her band on the communal corkboard, and Peter almost went to a show in Brooklyn before chickening out. 

Gwen is kind, the toughest grader Peter has ever met, logical, beautiful. Wonderful. 

“She could be your future wife,” Ned says, elbowing Peter in the ribs. 

“It’s too complicated. We work together.”

Betty cocks her head. “People meet at work all the time.”

“But if it falls apart, we have to see each other five days a week, every week, nine months a year.”

She wrinkles her nose, frowning. 

“One hundred eighty days.”

“Relationships are risks, Peter,” Ned says softly. “I love Betty. She knows how I got the scar on my back, and she knows that I got diarrhea in 7th grade PE, and she knows I cried watching _Ferris Bueller_.”

“I cried, too,” Peter says. 

“You really get me.”

“_You_ really get _me_.”

Betty says, “That is not a sad movie.”

“It’s okay that you don’t get it, babe.” Ned reaches out, giving her arm a little squeeze. 

Betty huffs, but a fond smile tips up the corners of her mouth.

“You’re scared,” Ned says, refocusing on Peter. “You messed up with MJ, and you don’t want to get hurt or hurt anyone else. But dude, Betty could break my heart tomorrow, and it would still be worth it.”

She awws, planting a kiss on Ned’s cheek that pulls a grin out of him, arm sliding around her waist as she cuddles into his side. Betty and Ned radiate a happiness Peter wants. He wants to be in love, he wants to get married one day, have a baby.

But Peter won’t ever have it if he’s too scared to be with anyone he really likes. He denied whatever was there with MJ until it was too late, his backtracking causing more pain than necessary. They’re still friends, but it’s not the same as before, a rebuilding process that aches every time he stops short on his way to her room. 

He likes Gwen, and she seems to like him, and pretending none of that exists feels like history repeating itself.

“You’re right,” Peter admits, even though that doesn’t make it any less scary. If they date and break up, working with Gwen will be hard, but it doesn’t hold a candle to what even the idea of permanently losing Michelle feels like. Peter knows he should act before it reaches that level. Before his fear outweighs his bravery, before the risk feels too big, the mountain too steep, the fall too far. 

“Life moves fast, if you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it,” Ned says.

Betty looks up at him with a proud, loving grin as she says, “That’s from _Ferris Bueller_.”

“Great movie,” Ned murmurs against her mouth. 

If Peter’s eyes get misty, that’s nobody’s business but his own. _Ferris Bueller_ is deep, okay?

The Monday before Thanksgiving, Peter asks Gwen if she wants to hang out. Her eyes widen, and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “My band has a show Wednesday night,” she says. 

So Peter drags himself to Brooklyn to see them (her) play. Gwen’s on drums, body moving with each hit of the tom-toms. Her face is flush, eyeliner thicker than usual, hot pink smeared across her eyelids. Focus and joy emanate from her, head bobbing to the beat, keeping time. 

Peter nurses a beer and taps his toes, the cymbal vibrating against his bones. The music is good, heavier than he expected. The surprise is nice. 

Gwen waves when their set ends, shooting a quick text about packing up. 

Peter responds in kind, asking if they need help. Catching his eye beneath the dimming stage lights, she shakes her head, so Peter watches as Gwen and her band break down the stage with the help of a security guard. His beer has gone warm, glass still mostly full. Peter usually prefers mixed drinks, but it’s been a long time since he’s gone out, even longer since he’s had to order his drink himself, and the bar was busy when he arrived. Worry about being late and finding a spot to see the makeshift stage caused him to blurt out MJ’s favorite beer when the bartender asked. 

It’s not bad. 

But he’s nervous. Stomach clenching. 

“Hey,” Gwen says.

“You were great,” Peter responds, looking up at her. 

Her coat is slung over her arm, gray wool tights she wore to work under her black, denim skirt. Her collarbones are sharp, peeking out of her sparkling top. She almost looks like an entirely different person than the one he sees five days a week.

She beams, smile big and bright. Familiar. “Thanks.”

Peter decides he likes both sides of Gwen, hopes to see even more.

“You wanna get out of here?” she asks. 

“Yeah.”

Gwen leads him outside, and Peter wonders where they’re going, but he doesn’t ask, brain a little goopy from the rustling sound their coats make whenever their arms brush. 

“I was starting to think you’d never ask me out,” Gwen says, slipping on her gloves. “But I’m really glad you did.”

“We haven’t even had a date yet.”

“I’m sorry, did the Spider-Gwens not blow your mind?” she asks with a warm, amused lilt that Peter wants to burrow inside of.

“_Pew!_” Peter says, motioning that his head did, indeed, explode. “You’re my favorite band now.”__

_ _“Perfect. I’m always looking for more fans. Alice and Kate keep saying I don’t do enough to recruit groupies. We’re 30, we each have a masters degree, and we play mediocre pop-punk twice a month. I don’t know why they think we need groupies.”_ _

_ _“To help break down the stage.”_ _

_ _“I promise to let you help next time,” she answers, giving in to the easy smile her mouth seems accustomed to, elbow brushing more solidly against his now, a steady rhythm. _ _

_ _“I hope we’ll have a next time before then.”_ _

_ _“Really?”_ _

_ _“Really.”_ _

_ _Gwen hums, reaching out, grabbing Peter’s hand. The cotton of her glove itches against Peter’s palm, but he doesn’t let go. _ _

_ _They discuss the final exams Gwen is writing, the piece of spinach stuck in the principal's teeth during their last institute day, and their plans for Thanksgiving. Gwen spends the holiday with her father. They eat turkey dinner at a cheap diner and then camp out for Black Friday shopping. Peter is heading to May’s, spending the day with her and Happy. May wants the three of them to visit Michelle at the bar after, which means they will. _ _

_ _The conversation flows easily, and Gwen’s hand warms Peter’s in the chill of the night. They happen upon a McDonalds, grab sodas and split a large fry. She tells him about her mom’s death, so Peter shares the loss of his parents, of Uncle Ben. There’s something comforting about Gwen. She’s open, and Peter knows exactly where she stands on everything from ketchup (gross) to alternate universes (they exist) to the three linked hearts tattooed on the inside of her ankle (her mom drew them at the bottom of every Christmas card her family ever sent). _ _

_ _Gwen kisses Peter on the shaking subway platform as the train rolls by, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. _ _

_ _Gwen kisses him without hesitation, brave and direct and lovely, and the fear of ruining something turns into excitement about the possibility of what they could become. _ _

_ __ _

Gwen wears one of Peter’s sleep shirts, his boxers edging out beneath the hem as she sits at the kitchen island, popcorn spinning around the microwave. 

He attended her band’s only December show before they stopped by Gwen’s apartment to pick up her toothbrush and a change of clothes for tomorrow. They have a brunch date with her friends at a restaurant closer to the loft, and his bed is bigger, mattress softer. 

“I’m getting a pimple,” Gwen says, two fingers brushing a spot behind her ear. “Right here.”

The microwave beeps, and Peter pulls the popcorn out, hot air escaping as he carefully rips the bag open. “When your hair’s down nobody will see it.”

Gwen pouts. “But I’ll know it’s there.”

“Does it matter?” Peter pours the popcorn into a bowl. 

“It’s going to be a painful one.”

He grimaces on her behalf, pushing the bowl across the counter and within her reach. 

The front door rattles before MJ enters, scarf loose around her neck, coat unzipped, hair frizzing underneath her hat the same way it does during a humid summer afternoon. “Hey,” she says, wiping her boots on the mat and slipping the small bag slung across her body over her head. “I’m MJ. You must be Gwen.”

“The one and only.” 

Peter tosses the empty popcorn bag into the garbage, shoulders stiff, alert in a way he wasn’t a moment ago. Michelle knows he’s dating Gwen, and Gwen knows he slept with Michelle, because just like the sign pinned above Gwen’s desk in the science department’s workroom: honesty is the best policy. 

MJ hangs up her coat and scarf, expression neutral.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Gwen says. 

Awkwardness churns in Peter’s stomach as he looks between them, holding his breath.

Michelle nods, shuffling over and nodding toward the bowl. “May I?” 

“Yeah, of course.”

“I like your eye shadow.”

Gwen’s lids are painted electric blue, glitter in the corners. “Thanks! Your purse is super cute.”

MJ glances at the thing hanging in the crook of her elbow. “I got it at a thrift shop on the Upper West Side. I can find the address for you later.”

“That’d be great.” Gwen smiles, and Michelle tosses a half-popped kernel into her mouth. 

Peter blinks, scratching at the nape of his neck. “How was work?”

“Fine. People are starting to feel generous.” MJ shrugs, grabbing another piece of popcorn. “Can you put on the kettle? I’m going to change.”

“Yeah. Chamomile?”

“Sure.” MJ presses her lips into a straight line, looking at Gwen. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other.”

Glancing at Peter, MJ’s mouth softens. There’s no tension on her face, only a tiredness that comes from a full shift. “Yeah, he’s a good one.”

Gwen doesn’t even wait until MJ is out of earshot to lean forward, shirt hanging loose. She taps both palms against the counter twice, emphasizing: “She’s gorgeous.”

Peter’s cheeks warm. “She is,” he agrees.

“Give me a bowl.” Gwen waves vaguely toward the pantry. The cereal bowls are on the other side of the kitchen, but she doesn't know that yet. Peter grabs one, and she scoops popcorn into it: “For MJ.”

*

“Six weeks,” Peter says, bags by his feet. He scans the loft, trying to memorize it: the dips in the sofa, the scratches across the wooden dining table, the order of magnets on the refrigerator. 

“You’re coming back,” Flash says, leaning against the island, arms crossed.

Ned’s eyes are wide, a mixture of sadness and excitement. “_And_ you get to convict a murderer.”

“We don’t know that,” MJ says. 

“You’re right.” Ned nods solemnly. “The murderer could be innocent.”

Michelle rolls her eyes, amused and affectionate. 

“I’m gonna miss you guys,” Peter says. 

Ned says, “We’re gonna miss you, too.”

MJ says, “I’ll make sure Flash doesn’t have sex in your room.”

Flash coughs, “Weenie,” into his fist. 

Peter blinks, swallowing down the rapidly forming lump in his throat.

Ned throws himself into Peter’s arms. “Group hug!”

Peter catches him, and Flash joins next, saying, “I’m totally gonna have sex in your room.”

Michelle smacks him upside the head before wrapping her arm around him, the other going across Peter’s back, fingertips skimming Ned’s shoulder. 

There’s a long pause as they all squeeze each other. Ned sniffles, and Flash asks, “Is your closet off limits, too?”

Jury duty is great. 

Peter is unanimously elected foreperson, and as they deliberate, he strikes a good balance between strict and lenient. Juror number four wastes a lot of valuable time complaining about bagels, but Peter reigns him in. The verdict is innocent, and Peter feels really great about that, too. 

Gwen and Ned write letters to him while he’s sequestered. Three-fourths of Ned’s efforts are redacted, but Peter doesn’t mind. When his phone is returned to him, he’s inundated with over a hundred texts from Liz and weekly voicemails from May. It’s nice knowing they were thinking about him as much as he was thinking about them. Which was often, alone in his tiny hotel room, staring at a dark ceiling, attempting to decompress and fall asleep without the bloody details echoing in his mind. 

He enters the loft expecting Flash’s feet propped up on the sofa’s arm as he scrolls through different television channels, Ned hunched over his laptop, gaming at the table, and MJ editing her novel at the island, sipping a cup of tea, notebook open beside her. 

Instead, Peter’s greeted by a quiet stillness. 

He breathes it in. He can’t smell the apartment, still too much of his home to pick out its distinct scent: the musk of an old New York building mixed with the cologne Flash routinely sprays into the air. 

Peter’s heart squeezes in his chest, and he heads to his room, cracking open the creaky door. His bed is made, a sweatshirt still thrown haphazardly over the back of his desk chair, papers sticking out of his AP chemistry textbooks, Gwen’s tangerine lotion on his nightstand. 

Setting his bags down, Peter eyes the letter on his pillow. It’s another from Ned, welcoming him home. Before he has a chance to read it, someone walks by his open door.

“Hey!” Peter calls, tossing the letter and standing up. He’s in desperate need of a hug after six weeks, and if Flash is the recipient, so be it. 

The person doubles back. 

Peter’s brow furrows. “Uh, who are you?”

“Brad.” 

“Who?”

“MJ’s…,” he starts, trailing off. Brad’s mouth twists. “MJ’s _friend_. You must be Peter.”

“Yeah.” 

Ned never mentioned MJ had a… _friend_. Peter’s eyes shift over the letter on his bed, but when he hears MJ’s door open, his head whips back around. 

“Peter?” MJ asks. 

He blinks, and her arms are thrown around him. He hugs her back, tight, and they stagger with the force of it. The back of his knees hit his bed. Closing his eyes, Peter inhales, surrounded by the strawberry of her shampoo and the vanilla of her body wash and the homey feeling that’s just MJ. 

“I’m back,” he says.

“No shit,” she breathes, squeezing him one more time before letting go. “We thought you were going to be another couple of hours. Flash and Ned are picking up the banner, and Liz and Gwen are grabbing the cake.”

“I missed you guys, too,” Peter says. 

“They missed you. I was taking a nap.”

Brad steps into Peter’s room. “Actually, she was wrapping your present.”

“Present?” Peter raises his eyebrows, the cat that ate the canary. 

MJ narrows her eyes. 

“Sorry,” Brad says. 

“I thought you were leaving?” Michelle shifts so she doesn’t have to twist back to make eye contact. 

“Now that Peter’s already here, I could stay?”

“I don’t know…”

“MJ says it’s supposed to be a close family and friends welcome home shindig, but you don’t mind if I stay, do you, Peter?” Brad asks.

Peter wants to inquire about MJ saying _shindig_ on the off-chance she might say it now, even if he already knows she absolutely did not say it before and will probably not say it now. Instead, his eyes track her face, trying to read her. He doesn’t mind if Brad stays or goes, but if MJ wants him gone, Peter will take the heat. 

She shrugs.

“You can stay,” Peter says.

“Awesome. I told you he wouldn’t care.” Brad rubs MJ’s arm and presses a kiss to her cheek. She wrinkles her nose, but she’s not _not_ pleased. 

Peter shoots her another look, asking questions he can’t voice out loud with Brad standing there. 

She simply shrugs again.

The present is a custom “Nobody Puts Peter In a Corner” T-shirt, and after they all eat Thai from Peter and May’s favorite family-owned place, they smoosh onto the sofa. The plan is to watch _Dirty Dancing_, but that’s Peter’s breakup, comfort movie, and he’s too happy to delve into it. He almost suggests _Criminal Minds_, but it feels like something that’s just for Michelle and him, a private thing they share, even if they haven’t queued up an episode in almost nine months. In the end, Peter picks _Alien_, and after he hugs May goodbye, Ned puts _Aliens_ on. 

It’s the best welcome home party Peter’s ever had. 

(It’s the only welcome home party Peter’s ever had.)

It’s chilly at the farmers’ market, first of the season, and Gwen’s been inspecting a necklace for over five minutes while chatting with the woman who made it. It’s a pretty, purple thing, and it would look good dangling from her neck while she pounds her drumset. Peter also thinks it would look good on her at any other time, day or night. But that’s neither here nor there. 

Brad eyes a black, beaded bracelet, MJ crosses her arms, looking down the street, and hunger takes root in Peter’s stomach. 

“I’m gonna get something from the taco truck we passed,” he says, pointing. “Anybody want anything?”

“A coke?” Gwen asks. 

“Sure. Brad?”

“Yeah, I’ll take a coke and a steak taco. Thanks.” He glances between Peter, MJ, and the bracelet, eyes wide. To MJ: “How about you go with him?” 

“Why?”

“To um, help him carry everything?”

MJ hums. “No, I think Peter can handle it.”

Brad’s eyes somehow bug out even more, begging Peter for help. 

“I’ll buy you nachos,” Peter says, nudging Michelle’s elbow. 

The corner of her mouth tips up. “Not hungry.”

“You could at least watch me struggle,” Peter says. 

Michelle squints, tapping her chin in faux contemplation. “Well, there’s nothing better to do. Come on, loser.”

They pass a vendor with an entire table of radishes, and Peter looks back at Gwen and Brad before he bumps MJ’s shoulder. “You’re mean.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice is monotone except for a thread of amusement Peter plucks out. She tilts her chin up, dropping her arms. Her sweatshirt is too large, sleeves covering her palms. 

“Cruel.”

“You didn’t even offer to buy your girlfriend that necklace.”

“Oh.” Peter turns, a full 360. “Should I have?”

“She doesn’t really want it, just wants to see how far she can talk the woman down.”

Gwen likes haggling, and she’s extremely good at it, charm convincing people they want to do right by her. 

“You like the bracelet?” Peter asks. 

“It’s pretty,” MJ says. “Don’t really wear bracelets, though.”

“Brad is going to buy it for you.”

“Oh, I know.” She looks at Peter, cahoots. 

“He’s as subtle as an anvil.”

MJ huffs out a laugh, wrapping her right thumb and forefinger around her left wrist. “Maybe I’ll learn to like bracelets.”

“It’ll look good on you,” Peter says. 

A smile worms its way into Michelle’s eyes. 

The taco truck is in sight. Peter can hear the grill sizzle when MJ stops short, hand on his forearm.

“What?” he asks.

“Harry,” she says. 

“Harry?”

“Come on.” Her fingers dig into Peter’s bones, head whipping around as she tugs him backwards. Except.

It’s too late. Because Peter sees Harry, and Harry sees Peter and MJ, sees Peter seeing him.

“Hey,” Peter says, waving. 

“I hate you,” MJ whispers under her breath. To Harry: “Hi.”

“How are you?” Harry asks.

“Good. You?” Her voice breaks a little, and she drops her hand from Peter’s arm, curling it into a fist. 

“Vegetable shopping.” He holds up a plastic bag filled with pea pods. 

“You did always like them cheap and organic.” MJ’s smile paints itself artificially on her face, awkward instead of mean, although with her, the line between the two can be thin. 

“Better than eating chemicals that’ll kill me.”

“Definitely,” Peter jumps in. 

Harry exhales, annoyed, and spares Peter a glance. “I don’t know how you do it, man.”

Peter’s eyebrows wrinkle. “Not everyone can afford organic vegetables.”

“You like ‘em dumb or what?” Harry asks MJ. 

Peter almost points out the self-burn, but MJ says, “Don’t.”

“That makes sense. Nobody else could possibly put up with you and your feelings. Or lack thereof.”

Peter frowns. “The only problem with her feelings is that she wasted any on a jerk like you.”

“Please,” Harry scoffs. “The only thing she wasted was my time. I knew she was cheating on me with you. I knew it.”

“I wasn’t. I didn’t.” MJ tugs her hands into her sweatshirt sleeves.

“I came home from work the day after you moved in, and you were just gone. A note that said, ‘sorry,’ on the fridge. No explanation.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeats. 

“Why’d you leave?” Harry asks, but his eyes drift between Peter and Michelle like he already knows the answer.

MJ swallows. “I don’t know.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Of course you don’t.”

He looks at Peter. 

“I know it seems great at first. She doesn’t force you to have conversations about where your relationship is heading, and she doesn’t cry because you bought her flowers on your anniversary. Which she forgot, by the way.” Bitterness coats his voice, hard and angry. “But then it’s been years, and you have no idea if she even likes you, or if she’s just in it for your money.”

“Harry,” Peter warns. 

People linger behind them, and Peter worries about standing in the middle of the street, about people eavesdropping (they might be -- okay, a few of them definitely are), but Michelle is tense, nervous, staring at the asphalt with her hands in her sleeves, arms crossed over her chest. 

“Oh, I forgot. You won’t have that problem,” Harry says. 

“You have every right to be upset,” MJ cuts in, hoarse. “I do owe you an explanation.”

Peter smells Gwen’s floral perfume. Turning his head slightly, he glimpses her and Brad approaching, little bag in Brad’s hand. 

“I never cheated on you. Not with anybody, and not with Peter. But it doesn’t matter, because I wasn’t in love with you.” 

A heavy, crushing pause.

“I was in love with him.”

It wallops Peter in the chest. 

Michelle’s never said it before, not to him, at least (not where he could hear). She sounds remorseful and regretful, and Peter’s lungs constrict. Love shouldn’t feel like that, but loving him did. Not anymore, though: _was_. Past tense. Peter missed it, arrived too late and wounded her in a way he’ll be grappling with for the rest of his life: remorseful and regretful. 

“MJ?” Brad asks.

Gwen stands next to Peter, eyes sad and mouth an understanding frown. 

“Who’s this?” Harry thumbs toward Brad.

“My…” MJ tapers off, horror written all over her face.

Brad says: “I’m the guy she’s sleeping with.”

Leaving Brad and MJ to talk, Peter and Gwen walk toward her apartment. He wants to hold her hand, but he doesn’t.

“Do you think they’ll work it out?” Gwen asks, sunglasses slipping down her nose. 

“I don’t know.” Peter presses his lips together. “I hope so.”

“Me too.”

Cars honk, a child laughs, and a construction crew drills into the sidewalk across the street. Peter cannot hear himself think. He glances at Gwen, head held high, steps in sync with his, a pensive twist to her mouth. 

When they round the corner, she asks, “Were you in love with her, too?”

He pauses, shoving his hands into his pockets. Gwen deserves an honest answer, considered and careful. Not an impulse.

“I could have been,” Peter says. “She never told me how she felt.”

Gwen nods. He can’t see her eyes behind her sunglasses. 

“I love her. She’s one of my best friends. I wish…” He pauses, takes a reinforcing breath, grabs Gwen’s hand. She doesn't pull away. “If anything more was going to happen between us, it would have. She’s moved on.”

Peter swipes his thumb across the back of Gwen’s hand.

“I’ve moved on,” he says.

Gwen’s mouth settles back into her almost-smile, and she swings their arms, stopping at the crosswalk. Her building is on the other side. 

“It’s probably a bad time,” she starts, nose crinkling, all cute. “But I love you.”

Squeezing her hand, Peter tries to contain his slow-breaking grin. He feels his heart stuttering wonderfully in his chest, joy pumping through his blood. “I love you, too.”

“Yeah?” Gwen asks, biting the corner of her mouth in the way she knows drives Peter absolutely nuts. 

“Yeah.” 

The light changes, and someone jostles them as they hurry by. Peter doesn’t mind, cupping Gwen’s face and pressing his smile against hers. 

He loves her. 

He feels good when they’re together, a bright, sunshine feeling that warms him from the inside out. He likes that she holds her pencap between her teeth while she’s grading, and he likes the bright colors she wears whenever they go out late at night, and he likes her muted work clothes, too. He likes that she and Michelle make fun of Flash together and that she helped May bake a pie crust. 

“I love you,” he says against her mouth, just to say it. 

“I love you, too,” she says right back. “But if we stay here, someone is going to shove us into oncoming traffic.”

Peter loves Gwen, feels safe with her, thinks hazily about a future they could have together.

The idea of it makes him feel really, really good.

When Peter returns home, Ned and Flash are splayed along the couch watching a hockey game. 

“Where’s MJ?” he asks. 

“In her room with Brad,” Ned says absently. 

Flash makes kissy noises, waggling his eyebrows, so Peter retreats to his own room, caught between a floating, content feeling newly embedded in his bones and concern for Michelle. He tries to update his lesson plans, but he can’t focus. He scrolls through his phone until he gets bored and plays a losing game of solitaire

A flat, hesitant knock on his door. 

“Yeah?” he calls, immediately scooting up so his back is against the headboard as he tugs down the rising hem of his T-shirt.

Michelle opens the door. “Hey.”

“Hey. How are you?”

“Good.”

She does look good, eyes clear and mouth soft. Something jumps beneath her skin, but Peter doesn’t think it’s hidden sadness. She has one hand on the jamb, door open, body angled like she wants to come in. 

“Good,” he says. 

“I’m gonna watch _Criminal Minds_ on the big TV, if you want to join.”

Peter’s answer is immediate, eager: “Yeah.”

MJ smiles, and it feels like clouds opening up, a light drizzle breaking the humidity, allowing the city to breathe again. 

It’s just the two of them on the sofa, Ned heading to his room with Betty, and Flash chasing a hookup. A foot of space sits between Peter and MJ, mugs of hot tea in each of their hands. As the BAU team receives their next assignment, Peter takes a sip. 

This used to be familiar, but the feeling has faded over time. Nostalgia washes over Peter, bittersweet, and he fights the urge to watch Michelle instead of the show.

“Brad’s my boyfriend now,” she says, and when he does risk a glance at her, she’s already looking back. 

“Oh.” He blinks. Something inside him tightens. “That’s good.”

“Yeah. He wanted to ‘define the relationship.’” She rolls her eyes, but they’re bright. “I like him.”

“You’re supposed to like your boyfriend,” Peter says dumbly.

Reaching across the gulf between them, Michelle smacks his arm. “Shut up. He’s always taking my picture. He bought me a book about ancient Rome, and he texts goodnight and good morning whenever we’re not together.”

“Every morning and night?” Peter asks. 

“It’s weird.”

“But nice, too?”

“Yeah,” MJ agrees. She pulls her leg up, right foot resting against her inner thigh, knee on the cushion between them. “Is Gwen okay?”

“Gwen’s great.” He almost makes a joke about how he isn’t the one who was in love with MJ, but it feels too mean, even in his head, where it’s meant to dismiss any lingering tension. Peter loves MJ, and he likes the way they’ve turned toward each other, the amused and almost gossipy look in her eye. 

“You love her?” she asks.

Peter attempts to dissect the question, but he can’t find anything other than friendly interest, the encouraging nod of her head. “I do,” he says.

“If you break her heart, I’ll kill you.”

“Hey! You’re supposed to be _my_ friend.”

MJ half-shrugs. “She’s cooler than you.”

Peter huffs, shaking his head, but he doesn’t disagree. 

“I’m correct,” MJ insists. 

“You always are.” Peter shifts, turning his body fully toward her, straight on. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

It rumbles in Peter’s chest, cracking him open and filling him up, slowly restoring something they lost along the way. 

“You’re missing the episode,” she says, nodding toward the television. 

He shrugs. “I don’t really like this show, anyway.”

Narrowing her eyes, Michelle glares at him, all fake outrage. It breaks, and she moves, picking up the remote to rewind. “I know.”

“I like watching with you,” Peter clarifies.

“I know.”

Peter looks at her until her mouth becomes a small, delighted smile, until something in his heart clicks back into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is different from the previous ones, as I did a lot more skipping around in the _New Girl_ canon to smoosh about 3 seasons into one update. That said, main episodes utilized (maybe?): 2x17: Parking Spot, 3x15: Exes, 4x05: Landline, 4x09: Thanksgiving IV and the general idea of Jess being sequestered for jury duty from season five. 
> 
> The roommate loft movie quoted is _Drinking Buddies_. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. I hope it was somewhat worth the wait! You can find me constantly embarrassing myself on Twitter [@saoirseegot](https://twitter.com/saoirseegot) and sporadically embarrassing myself on Tumblr [@amyabbotts](https://amyabbotts.tumblr.com/).


	8. eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I’m excited, and I’ve been wanting to marry Betty since before I even proposed. I know, you know?”_
> 
> _Peter doesn’t really know. He himself has never known, and May told him many times about how her stomach didn’t stop rolling from the minute she left Ben after their rehearsal dinner until she saw him from the end of the aisle, standing beneath the chuppah, shooting her an incandescent, boyish smile._

Peter drops his spare change into the Bears helmet, appreciating the clink clank clunk and steadying it when it threatens to tip over.

“You’re a Bears fan?” Gwen asks, rubbing lotion up her wrists. 

“Not really. Don’t particularly care for football.” 

She nods, mouth pinched down at the corners as she pulls the covers back. 

“MJ was cleaning her room and gave it to me,” he clarifies. 

“MJ’s a Bears fans?” she asks, a thicker coat of surprise in her voice. Gwen’s eyebrows raise as she slides into bed, shifting onto her side. 

“Not really. She’s from Chicago.”

Gwen hums, accepting the vague answer. “And you’re still coming to dinner with my dad tomorrow?”

“As long as I’m still invited,” Peter says, tossing his (much lighter) wallet onto his nightstand before crawling into bed. 

“I wouldn’t have confirmed if you weren’t.” Gwen smiles, an easy thing interrupted by a yawn. 

Peter’s heart softens, playdough in her hands, warm and pliant and happy. He loves how he feels with Gwen, their relationship blooming, opening up and growing. Meeting her father is a big step, and he’s just as anxious as he is excited, knowing how much her dad means to her.

Gwen has met May and Happy a few times, measured the flour for May’s pie crust and helped roll out the dough. She’s looked through the scrapbooks May creates on the nights when she can’t sleep and accepted the extra pickle from May’s plate. May has welcomed Gwen with open arms and warm hugs, telling Peter she’s whip-smart and wonderful. 

She is, Peter agrees. And he likes how easily she’s slotted into his life, with his friends and his family, comfortable and nice. Easy. 

“Consider me confirmed,” he says. 

Gwen’s answering laugh is light and melodic. Easy. 

They turn off the lamps on their respective sides of Peter’s bed and say goodnight. Gwen pillows her hands underneath her head, and when she closes her eyes, her lashes flutter. Peter traces the shadows that dance across her face before following her lead, feeling her knee pressed against his thigh.

Easy.

The dream is easy. 

Her weight pressing against him solid and hot, fingers splayed across his chest. He can’t kiss her. There’s something in the way -- a helmet. The Bears helmet. 

Peter’s fingers traverse up her sides, brushing against the soft, almost silky jersey hanging loosely over her body, shifting to reveal the warm brown skin of her shoulder. Her eyes are dark and Peter wants to fall into them, a stray curl stuck to her forehead that he wants to push back. He longs to press his mouth there, too. 

She grinds against him, mouth parting in a silent exhale, slack and wanton, helmet gone and replaced by eye black. 

Peter’s sitting up now, fingers digging into her thigh as she pulses around him, tight and wet. 

His name tumbles out of MJ’s mouth, a gasping thing that curls around Peter’s lungs, fighting for breath as he lets go.

Peter wakes up, sudden, blinking open wide eyes and grasping for his phone. He squints against the light: 3:23. 

He’s hard, his heart is beating wildly in his chest, and Gwen is asleep beside him.

It’s fine.

Betty told him healthy men have between three and five erections every night. 

Everything is absolutely, totally, completely fine.

Gwen eats some toast, pours coffee into a borrowed thermos, kisses Peter on the cheek, and, before she leaves for band practice, reminds him about dinner with her father as though he’ll forget.

Peter’s knee does not stop bouncing the entire time. 

Ned eyes him suspiciously from the table, fingers slowing over the keys of his laptop as he gets ahead on some work before the wedding. “Everything okay?”

“Yep.” Peter nods, head bobbling. 

“No offense, dude, but you look like you haven’t slept in 48 hours and drank an entire pot of Betty-strength coffee to cope.”

“If I drank an entire pot of Betty-strength coffee, I’d be dead,” Peter says, smoothing his hand over his knee to stop the shaking. It doesn’t quite work. 

Ned stands up, rounding the table to lean against the island and study Peter more closely. Which cannot be good. “What’s up?”

“I’m meeting Gwen’s dad tonight.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

“Pete.” Ned tilts his chin down, looking up at Peter in what seems to be a blatant manipulation attempt. “We’re brothers.”

“It’s not a big deal. It happens to all of us.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Flash says, emerging from his bedroom, fluffy, navy robe tied around his waist. 

Ned huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he leans more of his weight onto the counter.

“Where’s the French press?” Flash asks. 

“Cabinet 64B,” Peter says. 

Flash swings the cabinet open until the hinge catches. “No, it isn’t.”

“Are you sure that’s cabinet 64B?” Ned asks. 

Making a show of checking the label on the inside door, Flash’s eyes go all wide. “Why, yes, yes I am.”

Ned shrugs. “Ask MJ.”

Flash scowls, muttering that nobody in the loft appreciates his impeccable organization system. But in their defense, he rearranged everything because his parents were stopping by before a charity gala, and Flash wanted to impress his mother, and now almost nothing is where it used to be.

Peter and Ned share a look, and then Peter takes his out, hopping off his stool and grabbing his (untouched) coffee cup. “I’ve got lab reports to grade.”

“Brothers don’t keep secrets,” Ned says, unwilling to drop the subject as he follows Peter to his bedroom. 

Peter sets his mug on his desk, no coaster. He can hear Flash and MJ calling him a heathen, and at the thought of MJ, a wave of embarrassed heat rips through him. “It’s honestly nothing.”

“I can help! I’m a great helper.” Ned flops onto Peter’s bed, hands clasped, eyes eager. 

Sighing, Peter scrapes his hand across his face. “I had a sex dream.”

A beat passes, and Ned asks, “That’s it?” 

Peter folds his arms over the back of his chair. “It wasn’t about Gwen.”

Ned’s face blanks.

Peter’s eyes flit toward his door, the hallway, Michelle’s room. 

Ned blinks. 

Gasps. 

“Oh my god! You had a sex dream about MJ!” he shouts. 

“Shh,” Peter hisses, feeling warmth flood his cheeks, knows his face is turning red. “Keep it down.”

“I’m sorry!” Ned shakes his head. “Does that mean…”

“No!” 

“You had a sex dream about MJ?” Flash asks, leaning against the door jamb, sleazy smirk creeping at the corner of his mouth. 

MJ stands next to him. 

Peter thinks it’d be a really great time for an emergency phone call, a nose bleed, a return of the childhood asthma he outgrew. Anything to save him from this situation. He shoots daggers at Ned, who has the decency to look guilty, shrugging, palms up. 

Risking a glance at MJ, she crosses her arms over her chest, eyebrow quirking. “You dream about me?”

Peter swallows, mouth dry. “Uh…”

“Well now you have to tell me.”

He exhales, rubbing at the notch at the top of his spine. “It was just, you know…”

“I don’t know, actually.” 

Flash rubs his palms together, moving to sit next to Ned on Peter’s bed. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

Michelle has a self-satisfied look in her eye, taking Flash’s position against the door jamb and crossing her ankles, smug. “Come on, Peter,” she says, sultry tone prickling hot against his skin. 

“Everyone has sex dreams,” Ned says, attempting to diffuse a situation that seems to be mortifying to Peter and nobody else. 

Peter glares at Ned one more time. Just to be sure he knows how badly he fucked up by screaming Peter’s personal, unconscious business into the loft. Peter’s probably making too big a deal out of this. Molehill into a mountain and all that. It didn’t mean anything. Gwen is his girlfriend, and he’s in love, and their sex life is tremendous. 

Peter’s internal monologue comes out as, “Gwen and I have great sex.”

MJ rolls her eyes, and Flash says, “We know.”

Peter turns his head. “What do you mean ‘we know?’”

“Oh, Peter,” Flash demonstrates, high-pitched and all breath. “You’re so big and strong and sexy.”

“She’s never said that,” Peter counters.

Flash says, “Self-burn, bro.”

Ned says, “Maybe you’re not doing it right?” 

Michelle says, “Doubt that.”

Yeah, Peter’s skin is going to burn right off his face. He’s going to burst into flames. This is a conversation he could’ve had with Ned. It’s a conversation he planned (and still plans) on having with Liz. Having it with Flash is a nightmare, and if he hadn’t ever slept with MJ, if she hadn’t ever been in love with him, maybe they would have laughed about it together. But that’s an alternate universe, and if he could snap his fingers and go there instead, he would. Unfortunately, no dice.

Rolling his shoulders back, Peter looks at MJ, biting the bullet. He points toward the helmet. “You were wearing that.”

She settles her shoulder more securely against the door jamb. “Continue.”

“And a Bears jersey.”

“I could have sworn your sexual fantasies would have revolved around the Mets,” she says.

Flash whistles. “Those tight baseball pants.” 

“Well, I was putting my change into the helmet, so…” Peter trails off. “And, yeah, that’s it.”

“That’s it?” Flash asks. 

Peter shrugs. “Pretty much.”

“_Bor_ing.” He stands up. “Although I don’t know why I expected it to be anything but dry and uninspired.”

“Hey!” Peter protests. “It was not. It was hot.”

Flash scoffs.

MJ says, “Watch yourself, Eugene.”

“This isn’t about you, this is about Parker’s lack of creativity. If you’re going to make a big deal about having a dream about one of us, it better be nasty. I’ve had dreams about all of you and never thrown a fit.”

“At the same time?” Ned asks, mildly curious. 

“Ew, no. I wouldn’t want to share MJ with either of you.”

MJ hums, and Ned shakes his head, chuckling lightly. “I’ve never had a sex dream about any of you.”

“Not that you can remember,” MJ points out. 

Ned squints, thinking before he nods, admitting defeat: “I guess.”

Peter’s mind ping-pongs around the room, from Ned’s contemplative expression, as though he’s shuffling through a rolodex in his mind, trying to remember some roommate foursome he blocked out, to the disappointment radiating off Flash, to MJ, as calm and collected as ever. 

His brain catches. 

He asks, “Wait, have you had a sex dream about me?”

“We’ve had sex, Peter.”

It sounds like it’s supposed to be an answer, and yet he doesn’t know whether that’s a yes or no. “I know,” he says, anyway.

“I remember like, one dream a year, and it’s always some murder nonsense,” she adds like she can read his mind, recognizing his need for clarification. 

“Oh, remember the screwdriver one?” Ned asks.

“No. Absolutely not.” Flash shivers. “I have worked too hard to block that out.”

He exits quickly, head down, face scrunched, looking a bit faint. Peter takes it as his cue not to ask about the screwdriver dream, but files it away for future use if he ever really needs to escape Flash.

“Sick and twisted,” Ned says, small smile tugging at his mouth. 

“Don’t forget it,” MJ says, narrowing her gaze in faux-threat, her own amusement dancing around her mouth, actually threatening to break free. 

Straightening to leave, she says, “Flash is making coffee, if either of you want some.”

When MJ’s gone, Ned says, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Peter sighs. “I actually feel better having it out there.”

“So really, I did you a favor.”

Peter huffs, half-laugh, half-scoff, running his tongue along his teeth. “It’s not weird that I had a sex dream about MJ, right?”

“It’s only weird if you want it to be weird.” A beat. “Do you want it to be weird?”

“That’s the opposite of what I want.”

Ned nods, staring at Peter again in that probing way of his, different from MJ’s, but threaded with the same knowledge that makes Peter feel overly exposed. Sometimes it’s nice, and other times, like now, it’s too close to something. Peter doesn’t know what, and he doesn’t know if he wants to figure it out. That’s a problem for future Peter. 

“Okay,” Ned relents, pushing off the bed. 

“Okay,” Peter repeats.

“You want Flash’s coffee?”

Peter motions toward his lukewarm cup. “I’m good.”

“I’m going to play _The Last of Us_ later, if you’re interested.”

“Dude,” Peter says. “Obviously.”

Ned leaves, and Peter exhales, rolling his neck to release some of the tension that built up during the conversation. 

Sex dreams are normal. 

He was thinking about the Bears helmet MJ gave him. 

His brain was just processing it, and now that he’s processed the dream, it’s fine. 

Move along, folks. Nothing to see here.

Liz levels Peter with a look that tells him he’s full of shit. 

He’s been on the receiving end of that look more times than he can count. He tried once, but it was a futile exercise, not enough fingers and toes: when he told her that his child psychology professor had a personal vendetta against him for being late to class the first day, and that’s why he did poorly on the first test. The year Liz transitioned to high school, and Peter promised that the bully who gave him a black eye during middle school lunch looked way worse. When Ben died, and for a moment, he forgot Liz wasn’t everyone else, and he told her he was fine. 

Except this time, he’s pretty sure he isn’t full of shit. 

“I can’t control my dreams.”

She dips a fry in ketchup, staring at him before biting it in half. 

“I was putting my extra change in the helmet before bed, and Gwen asked about it. That’s all. My mind was thinking about that, and the really great sex Gwen and I had a few nights ago, and it just got mashed together.”

“I actually think you believe that,” Liz decides. She pops the other half of her fry into her mouth.

“Because it’s true.”

She wrinkles her nose. 

“Everyone agreed it was normal.”

“Peter,” she warns.

He takes a sip of water before clearing his throat. “I blew it out of proportion.”

“I think your initial freaking out probably says more about the dream than the dream itself.”

He squints, partially because he disagrees, and partially because something in the sky -- probably a cloud -- shifts, and the sun flares brighter over the patio. “It just happened, okay? It’s not a sign that I’m not over her, because I’ve never been under her-- well, except when we slept together, but that’s-- you know what I mean.”

Liz arches one of her perfect eyebrows. 

He inhales. “It would be different if she had a sex dream about me.”

“How?”

“Because she was, you know, in love with me.”

Liz snorts. Actually snorts. The only other time Peter has ever seen or heard something similar from her, soda came out of her nose at one of their sleepovers -- before they were too old to have them; some sort of heteronormative reasoning (and if thinking about heteronormativity makes Peter think about an article MJ published on her blog, that’s between him and God). 

“What?” he asks. 

“She and Brad seem happy.”

“They are.”

“So if she had a sex dream about you, it means they’re somehow less happy?”

“No…”

“You liked MJ,” Liz says, serious and without frills. 

Something about it seems vaguely cruel to Peter, but he tucks the harsh feeling aside. It has no place here, and Liz is not a mean person. “I do like MJ. She’s my friend.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Maybe because you keep doubting it.”

“I was right about her liking you,” Liz points out, swiping another fry through her glob of ketchup. 

Peter clenches his jaw. “What are you saying? Because there’s nothing missing with Gwen. I like where we are, and MJ and I have finally gotten back to a good place.”

“Okay, maybe it was just a dream,” she says, folding her french fry into her mouth and backing off. 

But Peter knows Liz, knows the crease between her eyebrows and how she leans back in her chair, pulling her sunglasses down from the top of her head to cover her eyes.

“But?” he prompts, picking at his burger bun. 

“You know how you feel, Peter. I get that. But you’ve been in denial about MJ before. It was probably just one dream, but if you have it again, I think you should consider the possibility that it’s something else.”

He nods, but he loves Gwen. He’s meeting her father tonight, and he doesn’t think he’s felt this good about a relationship, well, ever. He and Gwen want the same things, they’re on the same page, same sentence, even, and there’s something warm and fuzzy about how secure he feels with her. 

He freaked out, but a quick web search told him it’s nothing. The dream could’ve been a result of MJ and him regaining their friendship, becoming close again after what he now realizes was necessary distance. Maybe he wishes he had a little bit more of MJ’s specific brand of bravery. Having a sex dream about a friend could mean anything, but the results were clear: it doesn’t mean he’s in love with her. 

Peter’s not going to overanalyze it.

Fumbling with his tie, Peter attempts to knot it again, knowing Uncle Ben helped him before his parents’ funeral, even if he only has memories of it that aren’t his, mentions made to him later that he’s enveloped into his own concept of the day. He does remember Ben teaching him before his bar mitzvah, remembers his shaky hands the day he had to tie his tie for Ben’s funeral. He remembers May taking over and softly repeating Ben’s instructions, pale-faced and wet-eyed, wrapping Peter in a hug, her body trembling against his in an attempt to hold herself together -- to hold them both together. 

He exhales, taking a break to flex his fingers, shaking out his hands. The nerves over meeting Gwen’s dad have assembled in his stomach, knocking against his lungs. 

It’s going to be good. Peter gives great Parent. Felicia had said so, and she wasn’t one to hand out unearned compliments. His parent-teacher conferences are a hit 95% of the time. Even some of the problem parents love him. 

Fortified, he hears Ben’s voice, offering encouragement and direction as Peter successfully knots his tie. Staring at his reflection for a moment, Peter primps his hair before deciding it looks pretty good. 

He runs into MJ in the hallway.

“Hey,” she says. “You look nice.”

Peter glances down as though he and Liz didn’t thoroughly discuss his outfit after lunch, as though he doesn’t know what he’s wearing. “Thanks.”

“Meeting Mr. Stacy?” she asks. 

She already knows he is. 

“Yep,” he answers, heading into his room. The reminder churns his stomach again. He can’t remember whether Gwen’s quip about calling her dad “Captain” was a joke, or if there was an underlying seriousness there. He should ask her before they meet her father. Or maybe Peter just shouldn’t address him by name. That could be doable? He’ll feel it out, ask Gwen if he remembers. 

Michelle follows him, perching on the edge of his bed. “That’s a big deal.”

Peter shrugs, tugging on his closet door, grunting when it catches, as usual. “She’s met May.”

MJ hums. 

Peter yanks at the door. “A little help?”

She rolls her eyes, an amused smile on her face. “I don’t know. It’s fun watching you struggle.”

“You’re a good friend, you know that?”

Her answering laugh is deep and wry, and Peter’s missed hearing it. He doesn’t ever want to take it for granted again. 

Michelle pats his bicep, shoving him gently out of the way so she can lean down in front of him, fiddling with the base of the door, trying to realign it with the track it’s meant to slide on but never does. 

Peter hasn’t made any attempt to fix it since the disastrous situation with Kitty years ago. He asks, “Remember Kitty?”

“She’s still our landlord.”

“Oh.”

MJ laughs again, a shorter, aborted sound. “Pull the door open.”

He still has to tug harder than he should, but it slides over the jam, opening all the way. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” She stands up, wiping her palms on her leggings. “Are you thinking about when Kitty almost got you to have a threesome?”

“What? No!” Peter takes a step backward. “I was thinking about how she never fixed my closet.”

“Because she wanted to have a threesome.”

“MJ.” He scrubs a hand across his face.

“I’m just saying, you did have a sex dream about me earlier.” She lifts one shoulder, mouth slanted in a knowing sort of way that makes embarrassment flush anew in Peter’s face. 

“That didn’t mean anything!”

She lifts her arms over her head, wrapping her left hand around her right wrist and leaning, stretching. “Mmmhmm.”

“Michelle,” he says, flat. 

“Sorry, am I getting you all hot and bothered?” She smirks, reaching back to tighten the base of her messy bun. 

“No.” Any other time, he might be able to handle her teasing, laugh lightly and let it roll off. But right now, his anxiety is already ebbing and flowing, ratcheting up his spine. Peter grabs the offending helmet. “This is why. I had a dream about you because of this.” 

The helmet shakes, a few coins clanking against the floor as they fall out, adding to Peter’s growing frustration. He tips the helmet over his bed, a waterfall of pennies and dimes and quarters pouring out. 

“Peter,” she says, quiet, eyes wide at the manic way he’s moving the plastic. “I was just kidding.”

“If I didn’t have to look at this stupid helmet, I never would have had a dream about you wearing it.”

“It was a gift,” she says.

“Oh, okay! A gift! Maybe I should put it to proper use.” 

“You really shouldn’t--”

Peter shoves the helmet over his head. 

“--do that,” she finishes, cringing. 

“Why not?” he asks, looping a few fingers through the grid of the face mask. 

“Because it’s a child’s helmet.”

“What?!” He attempts to pull it off, grimacing at the way it clings to his head, tight around his ears. “Why would you give me a child’s football helmet?”

“Because I didn’t think you’d put it on!”

She knows him well enough to know that was a distinct possibility, but Peter pushes that particular argument aside. “I have to meet Gwen’s dad in…” He pivots, looking at his alarm clock. “Thirty minutes.”

Grunting, he tries to tug the helmet off again. More pain. No progress. “Isn’t there a saw at the bar from when you were putting in those shelves in the back?”

“You’re going to destroy it?” she asks. He can hear the lump in her throat. 

“Neither of us care about football,” he argues. “You don’t care about this helmet, which is why you gave it to me. Just to get it out of your room.”

She swallows, a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. “My dad gave it to me.”

“What?” Peter asks, heartbeat still erratic in his chest, except a little less from nerves and anger, now infiltrated with a humbling, touched fondness for the woman standing in front of him. 

“We went to one game when I was little. I read my Boxcar Children book the entire time, but the guy sitting next to us accidentally elbowed me in the head while standing up to cheer. My dad forced him to buy me the helmet to protect my head.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s kind of hard to talk about.” Her mouth twitches with a smile she can’t quite bring to fruition. “I did want it out of my room, though.”

Peter could ask why she didn’t give the helmet to Ned, but he’s pretty sure he knows. There’s nothing valuable about a kid’s Bears helmet. It’s not really a collector’s item, and Ned has his own memories of MJ’s dad, his own mementos. It’s a thank you for things he doesn’t need a thank you for, for things he would’ve done for any of his friends. It’s saying she values their relationship, that he’s an important part of her life.

“Thank you,” he says. 

It’s not enough, but it’s all he can think to say. 

“Yeah.” She presses her mouth flat, brushing an imaginary strand of hair away from her forehead. Peter does not think about wanting to do the same in his dream. “Well, we should probably get that thing off you.”

“Right.” He attempts to pull it off his head one more time, but it doesn’t budge. “Should we try to like… lube it up?”

“With what?” 

“...Lube?”

“You want to put lube on your head?” MJ asks, eyebrow raised. 

“Lotion?”

“Isn’t Gwen going to be here in five minutes?” 

Peter gestures. “So we really have to hurry up.”

He squirts some of Gwen’s tangerine lotion into his palm before struggling to slip his hands underneath the helmet. Most of the lotion sticks to his jaw and cheeks, but Peter manages some on his forehead, can feel globs on the edges of his hair, but none of it gets where it needs to be in order to help.

Another tug to the helmet, hands slippery now. No luck. 

Michelle’s laughing but trying to hold it in, shoulders shaking, hand pressed to her mouth. 

“Any better ideas?” Peter asks, wiping his palms on his dress pants. 

Any preparation he did has been thoroughly ruined. After getting the helmet off his head, he needs to wash his face, rinse the lotion out of his hair, change his clothes. At least he’ll smell nice. 

If he ever gets the helmet off his head. 

“You plant your feet and try to pull your head out of the helmet, and I’ll pull the helmet off,” Michelle suggests. 

“You think that’ll work?”

“Not really, but it’s a better idea than lubing up your head.”

“You know it makes sense!”

“Yeah,” she agrees, laughter still bubbling in her eyes. 

Peter doesn’t have time to appreciate it, because he won’t find this situation funny for 5-7 business days, at the earliest. He plants his feet firmly on the ground like she said. “Come on. We have two minutes.”

“Okay, fine.” 

MJ approaches, so Peter ducks his head. “Let’s go.”

As MJ grabs the helmet, Peter grabs the face guard, ready to push it up and away. She counts to three, and they work in tandem. 

Nothing happens. 

They try again.

Again, nothing. 

They keep trying, and Peter starts grunting in effort and frustration. His entire head pulses, but he suspects it has less to do with the actual helmet cutting off blood to his brain and more to do with everything else. 

“Peter?”

It’s Gwen. 

He and Michelle freeze. She’s twisted behind him while trying to pull the helmet off, their breathing becoming heavier in the skuffle. “I promise this isn’t what it looks like,” he says. 

She frowns, tilting her head, confused. “What do you think this looks like?”

“I’m too stressed to make something up, and I’m always honest with you, so I had a sex dream about MJ because she gave me this helmet.” Peter untangles his fingers from the face mask, pointing at it. “It didn’t mean anything, and our relationship is completely platonic, and you have to believe that even though the helmet is currently stuck on my head because it’s child-sized.”

Gwen squints. “Sure.”

“In the dream, MJ was wearing the helmet,” he adds.

At some point, MJ stopped trying to rip the helmet off Peter’s head, which is good, because if she succeeded, he’s pretty sure some skin would tear with the thinly padded plastic. She shrugs, mouth flat. 

“I believe you,” Gwen says, the genuine trust in her eyes pinching at Peter’s heart. “But we have to meet my dad for dinner. He hates tardiness.”

“I can’t get the helmet off,” Peter clarifies. 

“You’re not going to get anywhere that way. We just need a screwdriver and a hammer.”

Peter looks at MJ, arms crossed, mouth thinned. She glances at the ground, running her sock-covered toes in the crack between two worn floorboards.

“I can’t break it,” Peter says. 

“You can’t?” 

“It’s got sentimental value.”

Michelle clears her throat. “My dead dad gave it to me.”

“Okay,” Gwen says slowly, eyes shifting between them. “Well, I’m having dinner with my dad. See you later.” Pivoting on her feet, she looks over her shoulder on her way out, passive-aggression rippling underneath her words: “Good luck.”

Peter waits for the soft thud of the front door closing, and then he gently, carefully, knocks his head against his dresser. Once, twice, thrice.

“What are you doing?” MJ asks.

“Banging my head without denting your helmet.”

She doesn’t respond, so Peter turns around, sinking to the floor, helmet-head in hand. “I’m going to be stuck like this for the rest of my life.”

“Peter,” she says, soft and low. 

“It’s okay. It’ll protect me in case I ever walk into a streetlight again.”

“You won’t-- again?”

“I got distracted,” he mumbles, lifting his eyes to really look at her. She sits on the corner of his bed, slight downturn to her mouth but something else in her eyes, soft and low like her voice, maybe a little awed. His stupidity is pretty awe-inspiring, so he can’t blame her. “May was telling a really good story.”

“May is an awful storyteller,” Michelle says, eyes turning visibly fond now. May has that effect on people. 

“She’s a great storyteller.”

“She takes too many detours.”

“But they’re fun detours,” Peter argues.

“You’re just saying that because you do the same thing.”

Peter exhales a sad laugh. “And you’re just flattering me.”

“It’s true,” MJ says. 

Peter nods, stretching his legs. He screwed up. Gwen is pissed. Her father is going to hate him, and he doesn’t really know what to do, how to fix any of it.

The lotion has dried, at least.

A heavy, gloomy silence fills the room, and Peter tilts his head back so the helmet hits the dresser again.

He’s contemplating the best way to drink a glass of wine through the face mask when Michelle takes a deep breath, approaching Peter and holding out her hand. “Come on.”

“I cannot go out in public like this.”

“I’m going to get a screwdriver and a hammer, and I’m going to break the helmet off your head.”

Peter scrambles up. “You can’t do that.”

She rubs her lips together, nodding her head with careful decision. “Yeah, I can.”

“MJ,” he sighs. “It means too much to you.”

“No.” A beat. “I never cared about the helmet, and you’re going to be late for dinner. I won’t be the one who ruins this for you.”

“It’s not your fault that--”

“I know,” she cuts him off. 

Peter’s gaze tracks across her face, looking for any sign she’ll regret this later, any hint that he can’t parse out and may or may not mean she’ll hold this against him, any flit of her eyes or tightening of her jaw that says missing a gift from a father who loved her in a way that was broken will hurt her anew. 

He finds none.

“Thank you,” he says. 

“Of course.” The corner of her mouth barely curls up.

Peter’s late to dinner (obviously) and knocks a full glass of water off the table, but Gwen’s dad warms up to him throughout the meal, and her happy smile flips a switch in Peter’s heart, reassuring, like a child’s guardian turning on their nightlight.

Roommate movie night is about to commence as Flash slips _Harold & Kumar Go To White Castle_ into the Blu-ray player. MJ’s curled underneath a blanket, arguing about Skittle colors with Ned (she says they all taste the same; he insists purple are the best), and texting Brad on his subway ride back to his own apartment, because rule number two of roommate movie night is no non-roommate guests allowed (rule number one is no asking questions the movie hasn’t answered yet as though someone else knows, even if someone else knows). 

Peter grabs the frame from his room, heart tumbling around his chest and simultaneously beating in his stomach. 

He doesn’t want to overstep, but he wants to say thanks. 

When he returns, Flash has inserted himself between MJ and Ned, kicking his way underneath the blanket.

“What’s that?” Ned asks, reaching across Flash to hand MJ an orange Skittle. 

“I thought we might be able to hang it here,” Peter says, pointing at the empty patch of gray-green wall next to the television. He fumbles with the frame as he flips it up. 

Peter watches MJ react, a stillness washing over her, the deep breath that straightens her back, pupils dilating, mouth pressing into a small, grateful smile. “It’ll look good,” she says. 

The broken piece of helmet with the orange C sits in the center of the shadow box frame. It’ll fit in the apartment, not quite cohesively designed, but filled with the four of them: the large sectional Flash bought, the large, leafy sansevieria he frets over, Ned’s dinged up end table with the Millennium Falcon pencil holder that looks like a throwing star, a trio of MJ’s doodles stuck to the refrigerator, and now a piece of her father, a good memory of a complicated person. 

Ned grins. “Da Bears!” 

Flash says, “I’ll hang it up tomorrow. I don’t trust you guys to make sure it's level and centered.”

MJ nods at Peter, and the tension leaves him, replaced by a soothing comfort spreading warm in his chest. He looks at Flash and Ned, eyes drifting back to MJ, the feeling rooting itself between his ribs. It’s been there, but he’s more aware of it now. 

Peter settles next to Ned, taking the proffered red Skittle, and blinks back his brewing tears. It’s roommate movie night, Flash’s pick, and he doesn’t need to ruin the mood. They’d be good tears, anyway.

*

“Alice’s favorite food?” Liz asks.

Peter tucks his lips into his mouth, visualizing the notecard in her hand. “Hu Tieu Bo Kho?”

“Where does she work?”

“She’s in charge of graduate research at ESU.”

“Siblings?”

“Two older brothers,” Peter says, focusing on Liz’s wrinkled brow. “Ron and Larry.”

“And why are you doing background checks on Gwen’s friends?” she asks, mouth twisted, stretching her leg to poke at his thigh with her toe. 

“I just want to make a good impression. I’m not going to ruin her birthday party because I forgot she roomed with Esha her first year of grad school because Kate deferred a year.”

Liz tilts her head, confused, amused frown on her face. “Haven’t you met most of them before?”

“Not Esha or Max or Heather or Selma or--”

“Peter,” Liz interrupts, laughing lightly. “You’re taking this way too seriously.”

“I know.”

Peter sighs, unsure about why he grilled Gwen about her party guests, tracking information he already knew on the back of a notecard, asking answers to random questions he didn’t recall or never learned: favorite sports team, favorite drink, Gwen’s best memory with them.

“I’ve met half of them at Spider-Gwen shows,” Liz adds.

“I know,” he repeats, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”

Maybe it’s all of Gwen’s best friends coalescing in one place to celebrate her, Peter on her arm as her boyfriend and partner, a new layer to their relationship that involves firmly planting himself in her world the same way she’s become a fixture in his. They’re combining their lives with a seriousness and commitment that’s beginning to become scary. They haven’t rushed it, and everything has been going so well for so long, and something small buried inside Peter doesn’t trust it. 

Maybe it’s because of the glittery excitement behind Gwen’s eyes when she told him that Miles is coming. It was the first mention of Miles in the months Peter and Gwen have been dating. Gwen met him during undergrad. He’s an emergency room doctor now, moving back to his old Brooklyn neighborhood after taking a job at Langone. Gwen’s enthusiasm about his humor and kindness and perseverance swirls in Peter’s head, unable to settle. 

Maybe it’s all of that and something else, too.

Gwen and Miles sit in a booth, Gwen’s cheek resting in her palm as they talk. When Peter slid away to get drinks, they were reminiscing about a party during their senior year of college, but the conversation could have shifted to another shared memory since then, to a story either of them had forgotten but suddenly itched to retell. 

“Are you going to stay here and mope, or actually go back?” MJ asks. 

Peter spins to face her, pulling his drink closer. Whatever MJ made for him is an orange color. Taking a long sip, he picks out the orange juice, the hint of another citrus flavor tickling the back of his throat. He can’t taste the alcohol he knows is there. “I’m not moping.”

She stares at him. 

Peter takes another drink, and Gwen laughs, a loud, roaring thing that’s somehow different from all her other laughs, a laugh Peter has never heard before. “I’m moping a little,” he admits, shoulders slumped. 

Michelle leans over the bar, looking around Peter to get a better view. “He’s hot.”

“And smart, and funny, and perfect.”

Peter doesn’t see her eyeroll, but he can still feel it. “I think this is better than macho posturing, but not by much.”

He rubs his forehead. “Any words of encouragement?” 

“I don’t give pep talks.” 

What MJ does give, however, is shots. One for each of them, downing the alcohol at the same time.

MJ wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Don’t overthink it. Don’t get jealous or weird. It’s not a competition. You’re great, Peter. Gwen loves you.”

“Thanks.” He smiles as he balances the drinks in his hands. “And I won’t tell anyone you give decent pep talks. Seven out of ten.”

She shakes her head, stacking the shot glasses on top of each other before moving them to the bucket Peter knows is below the bar. 

Gwen helps free Peter of their drinks, her mojito and Miles’s beer, before he slides into the booth next to her. 

“Miles and I were just remembering his 21st birthday. He’d never been drunk before.”

“Gwen,” he warns, lips tipped up at the corners. He looks at Peter, clarifying: “I’d had drinks.”

“A Blue Moon before going to the school’s production of _The Drowsy Chaperone_ is hardly having drinks.”

“There was a can of beer. I drank the whole thing. That’s having drinks.” Gwen’s head dips with a laugh that lasts too long. Miles makes eye contact with Peter, shrugging in apparent agreement before saying, “Checkmate.”

“No, not checkmate, because you had your sash and your tiara,” she pauses, reaching over to place an imaginary crown on his head, “and we plied you with drinks until you fell asleep at the table before eleven.”

It’s Miles’s turn to laugh, a low, rumbling sound that is -- yes, Peter can admit -- attractive. “Ganke bought me an absinthe shot.”

“Excuses,” Gwen says, knocking against Miles’s bicep with her knuckles. 

It twists inside Peter’s stomach, so he takes another long pull of his drink, draining half the concoction in one go, a mild brain freeze tightening behind his forehead. He listens to them discuss setting off the fire alarm in Gwen and Kate’s apartment, a mural Miles painted on the side of their science building, a harrowing story of a life saved in the ER. Peter listens, slurps up his drink, slurps up the melted ice, and excuses himself to the bathroom. 

Except he says, “Two peas in a pod. Don’t need me. I’m going to piss.”

He almost wonders how much alcohol MJ put in his drink, wants to blame her for the flippant, rude statement and the jealous, weird, macho way he squeezes Gwen’s thigh and kisses her jaw before getting up. Like a dog peeing on a fire hydrant. 

It’s gross, and maybe it’s partly the alcohol, but the fault is all his own, and he feels embarrassed enough that he contemplates faking sick.

Miles finds him contemplating as he washes his hands a few minutes later. 

“Hey,” he says. 

“Hey.”

“You seem really cool, man.”

“Thanks.” Peter shuts off the water with his forearm, sticking his hands underneath the dryer. The gust of air is cool against his skin, goosebumps sticking up on his arms. He averts his gaze, unable to make eye contact. “I’m sorry about all… that.”

Miles laughs, but it’s not real, scratchy and uncomfortable. “It’s okay. I get it.” 

“You do?”

“Yeah. Gwen’s… _Gwen_.”

“She is,” Peter agrees. “Wait, what?”

Miles clears his throat, pulling out his wallet and grabbing a folded piece of notebook paper tucked between his ones and fives. “To be honest, I was planning on giving her this.”

Peter looks at the paper, worn out, blue lines fading. He looks at Miles, tiredness washing out some of the light in his dark eyes but not the goodness, not the beauty. The feeling shifts, the air heavier but somehow better. 

“I wrote it before I moved to LA. I was too scared to give it to her. Felt weak to do that and run.” Miles unfolds the paper, hands steady and arms strong. “We got ice cream at that Milk Bar place.”

“The stuff that tastes like milk after you’ve eaten cereal?” Peter asks.

“Yeah. We went to the top of the Empire State Building after. We’d never been because, New Yorkers, you know? Turns out Gwen’s afraid of heights, and she threw up all over my new sneakers. She felt awful, and to make it up to me, she made me a pint of homemade cereal milk ice cream.” He pauses, unafraid to meet Peter’s gaze, holding the paper between them. “It says I’m in love with her.”

Peter watches Miles skim over the words, eyelashes fluttering. “Why didn’t you tell her earlier?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t realize.”

Peter nods, unable to speak. He understands.

“We lost touch when I moved. I worked nights, was exhausted all the time. The time difference. But I thought maybe… and then… you.”

“Me,” Peter says, lips stuck together, single syllable barely audible. 

Miles goes to throw the note away. 

Peter inhales, grabs his wrist and twists it away from the trash can. “You have to give this to her.”

“Nah, man. I can’t.”

“You have to,” Peter says, feeling a little wild and preemptively heartbroken. “I don’t know why I’m even saying this, because you’re like the perfect guy. And I’m probably setting myself up to be dumped, but you owe it to yourself and to her and your relationship to tell the truth. You can’t let fear win.” 

Mile stares at him for a long beat. “It’s not fear, Peter. She’s happy with you. If she was single, yeah, but she shouldn’t have to question her life now because I finally showed up.”

Peter thinks that’s good, that’s fair, and right, and demonstrates what an upstanding person Miles is. 

It’s also totally excellent for Peter. 

Because if Miles gave Gwen the letter and told her how he feels, Peter has no idea whether she’d want to be with Miles instead of him. She and Peter have been happy, intertwining their lives, a toothbrush at her place. But Gwen has a Miles laugh, a shared history with him that spans years, spans all-night study sessions and all-night parties, spans the good, the bad, the ugly, and being there for each other through it all.

A coin toss. 

Fifty-fifty. 

Miles throws the letter away.

A hopeless romantic lives in Peter’s heart. 

He knows because he kept every Valentine’s Day card from elementary school, organized by grade, in a shoebox decorated with pink construction paper and red foam hearts. He cries during every romantic comedy he’s ever seen, the sugary happiness springing out of his eyes. He doesn’t believe in fate or love at first sight, but he believes in chances and romance and happy endings. 

He knows because Miles threw the letter away, and Peter picked it back out of the (empty, he’s not disgusting) garbage can. 

Peter reads it. 

It’s probably an invasion of privacy. 

There’s the story about Milk Bar and the Empire State Building and homemade ice cream, but there’s so much more than that. The first time they met, Miles knocking into her on Freshman move-in day, a turn of phrase about Gwen metaphorically knocking him off his feet. It’s filled with the overtures of a love declaration buoyed by the careful, tender care of their friendship. 

Peter might tear up. 

(He absolutely does.) 

Liz and Ned sit on the sofa, leaning in as they both read the letter. Yeah, sharing it is an even bigger invasion of privacy. Oops.

“You can’t give this to her,” Ned says.

“But Miles could be the love of her life.”

“Or you could be the love of her life.” Ned pokes at Liz with his elbow. “Tell him.”

“I don’t know…” Liz trails off, brushing her pointer finger underneath some sentence. “It’s a great letter. Just a boy standing in front of his best friend, asking her to love him.”

“Yes!” Peter agrees. 

“A little enthusiastic to possibly get dumped, though,” Liz adds, nose scrunching. She has the letter in her lap now, reverentially smoothing over the folds embedded in the paper from the years in Miles’s wallet. 

Peter deflates, wringing his hands. “Yeah.”

Ned shakes his head. “You don’t have to do this, Pete. You can put yourself and your relationship first. For all you know, Gwen sees Miles as a friend, and that’s it. You’d just make it awkward for all three of you.”

“What if this is their love story?” Peter asks. “If someone wrote you that letter, wouldn’t you want to read it, even if you didn’t feel the same?”

Ned says, “No.”

Liz says, “Yes.”

They turn to look at each other, wide-eyed. 

“Why?” Ned asks. 

“It’s beautiful,” Liz enthuses. “Wouldn’t you want to know someone sees you this way?”

“I have someone who sees me this way.” 

Peter rolls his eyes. 

“My fiance,” Ned finishes, holding one hand up, and then giving himself a high-five. 

Liz laughs. “I’m just saying that if the girl I had a crush on in high school wrote something like this for me, I’d be unstoppable.”

“You’re already unstoppable,” Ned says, and Liz awws, a cute little pout on her face. 

Peter asks, “Judy or Fiona?”

“Either one,” Liz says, eyes skidding back to him. “Although imagine if it was Fiona?”

Peter splays a hand over his heart. “Shit.”

Fiona was a senior when Liz was a sophomore and Peter was a freshman. She was super cool, septum piercing, ends of her black hair dyed blonde. She earned a perfect score on her SATs, and single-handedly created Midtown’s literary magazine. Liz had forced Peter to join with her despite both their interests veering toward AcaDec, Math (Liz) and Chemistry (Peter). By the end of their first literary magazine meeting, Peter was just as in love with Fiona as Liz was. 

“I know.” She bites her lip, and then blinks, shaking it off and focusing on the task at hand. “You’re going to give that letter to Gwen. Not because you’d want to know, or because you’re a hopeless romantic, but because now that the thought is in your head, you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering if you’re really her second choice.”

“I don’t--”

“Peter,” she says, no nonsense. “You believe in love. That letter pulled at your heartstrings. Hell, I’m about to tell Lian I love her.”

Peter’s heart flips, eyes widening. “You do?”

“I don’t know.” Liz waves him off -- they’ll definitely make a pro/con list later. “But I know you, and you’re going to give her this letter hoping you’re part of their love story just as much as you hope you’re the love of her life.”

She’s right. 

Liz presses her lips together and tilts her head, something knowing in the way she looks at him. Nobody but May knows him as well as she does. Peter doesn’t even see himself as clearly as May and Liz do. 

“What?” he asks. 

Her eyes narrow. “Nothing.”

It’s not nothing, but she looks down, refolding Miles’s words, and Peter lets it slide because Ned asks about Lian, and Peter wants to talk about something that isn’t even tangentially about himself.

Peter takes Gwen to a small cafe in Brooklyn with sunflowers painted on the wall and bagels that are more cream cheese than bagel. They sip coffee and discuss Ned and Betty’s upcoming rehearsal dinner, the humidity sticking in the air, and, related, Gwen’s newfound interest in meteorology. 

He holds her hand as they walk down the block, palms pressed flat and sticky between them. There’s a hint of breeze, too warm, but later in the day, it’ll feel good nonetheless. 

“Doesn’t Miles live over there?” Gwen asks, pointing down the street. 

Exhaling, Peter braces himself. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Gwen knocks their elbows together. 

She knows something is up, but she doesn’t press, eyeing him curiously when they stop in front of Miles’s building. Her gaze is light, no sense of the impending change he’s about to bring. Miles flies out to LA with his parents tomorrow, renting a car to drive the rest of his belongings back to New York, and the note is burning a hole in Peter’s pocket. 

“This is going to be weird,” he starts. 

Gwen squints, bringing her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun. “Is this a belated birthday surprise?”

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Peter sighs. “Uh, not really. I just. I want you to go upstairs and talk to Miles.”

“Okay?” The carefree curiosity gives way, a wrinkle forming between her eyebrows. 

Peter pulls the letter out, folded one time more than it had been before. “Just, don’t read this until you’re with him.”

“You’re freaking me out,” she says. 

“Don’t freak out. It’s…” Peter tapers off, unable to finish. 

“That’s not reassuring.”

“I don’t know what it is, Gwen. Just trust me. Talk to Miles, and we’ll go from there.” He steps toward her, pressing a kiss to her temple that feels like a goodbye. 

“Did he save your life once or something?” she asks, tone unsure, uneven. It’s a joke, but she wouldn’t be shocked if it were true. 

Peter lets himself smile. “He might.”

He says goodbye, and he doesn’t know if it’s for the morning, or the day, or if this is the end of their relationship. Miles buzzes her in, and she turns around, door propped open with her foot. “Last chance to tell me,” she says.

Peter shakes his head. “I love you.”

She relaxes, mouth curving up. “I love you, too.”

She waves him off, the door shuts behind her, and Peter shoves his hands into his pockets, head down, heart beating fast like it wants to hop out of his chest and follow Gwen up the stairs. He doesn’t know whether his heart wants to stop her, keep her for himself and respect Miles’s wishes, or if he wants to watch her face light up when she learns Miles has been holding onto her all this time. 

Peter turns the corner, realizing all his options are the same: she doesn’t know and stays with him, or she knows and finds herself in Miles’s arms.

Oh.

Peter dusted off his copy of _Dirty Dancing_ and listened to one minute of Joni Mitchell wailing. Now, he lies on his bed, one leg dangling off the side, phone resting against his chest. He waits for it to vibrate, signifying the end. Gwen has been the first person he’s really loved since Felicia, and he let himself believe she would be the last. But the strangest sensation is the curling wisp of happiness for her and Miles, unmistakably smoking around the kindling burning up his heart. 

Someone knocks on his door, and he mutters something like, “What?”

The door creaks open. 

It’s Gwen. 

Peter scrambles up so fast his phone falls down his chest, tumbling off his bed and hitting the floor. “Hey,” he says, breathless. 

“Hi.” Her lips tug into a soft smile. There’s no sympathy in her eyes. Settling next to Peter, Gwen leans on him, arm resting against his back, hand curled over his shoulder. She nods toward his phone. “You gonna get that?” 

Peter swallows, shaking his head. “No. I’m good. Rip the band-aid off.”

Gwen furrows her eyebrows. “You think I’m here to break up with you?”

“Well.” Peter looks at her. Her face is closer than he thought it would be. “Yeah.”

Her little grin is back, and it’s contagious, making Peter want to smile, too. “Miles is my best friend, but this thing we have here?” Gwen squeezes his shoulder. “It’s good. I love you.”

Peter’s frozen. He blinks, maybe, but he doesn’t move. He’s surprised more than anything else, mind pulling the yo-yo back. When the curve of Gwen’s mouth begins to flatten, eyes shifting over his face, unsure, the yo-yo snaps into place. “I love you, too.”

“That’s the nicest, most selfless thing anyone has ever done for me,” she says, resting her chin on his shoulder, and Peter tries to un-know what he thought he knew.

*

“Thanks for coming,” Ned says, peaking around Michelle as she pushes him aside to shut the apartment door. They’ve been trying to get the last of the rehearsal dinner guests to leave for almost an hour, but Ned kept talking and talking, conversation dovetailing into a contemplation on whether a summer wedding was even the right choice.

Ned and Betty are getting married tomorrow. They have no choice; it has to be the right choice. 

“That went really well,” Betty says, voice colored in pleasantly shocked relief.

“I gave the best speech of all time,” Flash scoffs. 

“Thank your editor,” MJ says, actually locking the security chain, likely worried about someone trying to come back inside to continue the evening after Betty’s cousin doubled back thirty minutes ago. 

Flash presses his palms together like he’s praying and bows. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. The bit about soup? That was all you, and I teared up.”

“Really?” Brad asks. 

“You should’ve seen her the first time she read the speech, when it started weaving in and out of French?” Flash whistles. “Bawling.”

“Really?” 

MJ shrugs. “What can I say? It was beautiful.”

“It really was,” Ned agrees, clapping Flash on the back. “Thanks, man.”

“It was my pleasure.” He bows again. “But the real heroes were Peter and MJ.”

“You make a really great team,” Gwen adds.

“We kind of do,” Peter agrees, holding his hand up. Michelle rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t leave him hanging, the slap of their high-five stinging against his palm and ringing in the air. 

Betty’s sister is her maid of honor, but she lives in Phoenix and is busy with infant twins. To lessen her workload, she allowed the rehearsal dinner to be hosted by MJ (best woman) and Peter (if you ask Flash, groomsman number one (because Parker comes alphabetically before Thompson); if you ask Ned, best man) (In fear of being left out or cast aside, Flash insisted on being maid of honor at MJ’s wedding. Seeing as she’s not even engaged, MJ declined to humor his request). 

The rehearsal dinner went off without a hitch, cheaply held in the loft with financial backing from Flash, and emotional backing from Flash’s truly stellar speech. Peter thinks it’s unfair MJ received editor duties, not because she wasn’t the best candidate, but because she was able to prepare for the heartfelt, emotional wallop. Peter’s tears soaked through his fancy cloth napkin.

“Okay,” Liz says, pointing to Ned and Betty, their arms around each other. “Time for you two to say goodnight.”

Saying goodnight involves a lot of tongue, apparently. 

Gross.

Peter paces from his desk to the window while Ned sits comfortably on his bed, hands folded in his lap. 

“Are you nervous? Are you excited? Do you need to go over your vows again?”

“We didn’t write our own vows,” Ned reminds him. 

“Right.” Peter nods, walking back and forth and back and forth. “Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m good. I’m ready.”

Peter stops, standing directly in front of Ned. “Are you sure? Because I am here to help. Also, your lack of nerves is making me nervous.”

Ned laughs, patting a spot on the bed. “Oh young padawan, I have so much to teach you.”

“Hit me,” Peter says, sitting next to Ned.

“Tonight is about me,” he ribs, shoving at Peter. “I’m excited, and I’ve been wanting to marry Betty since before I even proposed. I know, you know?”

Peter doesn’t really know. He himself has never known, and May told him many times about how her stomach didn’t stop rolling from the minute she left Ben after their rehearsal dinner until she saw him from the end of the aisle, standing beneath the chuppah, shooting her an incandescent, boyish smile.

“You still have the rest of the night to play the groom card if you need it,” Peter assures. 

“I won’t,” Ned assures, too, supremely confident. He readjusts his position on the bed, setting his hand down as he leans back to look at Peter’s suit hanging in his open closet. His hand hits the windbreaker still thrown across Peter’s sheets. “This is Gwen’s jacket, right?” 

“Yeah.”

It drizzled earlier in the afternoon, and she wanted the hood to keep her hair dry, firmly believing jackets are easier than umbrellas, especially when big storms aren’t forecast -- by the weather people or her own, independent tracking.

Ned’s hand rustles over the fabric, eyes widening. “Um, Peter…”

“What? Are you freaking out now?” He’s pretty sure if Ned started freaking out, he could stop freaking out. 

Ned picks up the windbreaker, shoving his hand into one of its pockets and pulling out a jewelry box. “Did you give this to her?”

“No.” The small, black box is as unfamiliar to him as Flash’s speech had been earlier today, and the feeling lodging itself between his ribs is just as strong. 

Ned glances at him. 

Opening the box, his eyes dart from whatever is inside to Peter. And then he turns the box so Peter can see the engagement ring.

“Gwen is going to…” he whispers, words trailing off, throat dry. 

“Gwen is going to propose?” Ned repeats, finishing what Peter couldn’t say. 

Lunging toward him, Peter slaps a hand over Ned’s mouth to quiet any potential, loud, follow-up, and pulls the jewelry box away, snapping it shut. “I don’t know.”

“She has an engagement ring,” Ned says. 

“Yeah.”

“This is good, right?”

Peter blinks, fist closing around the box. “Um, yeah.”

Ned doesn’t blink. “You hesitated.”

“I,” Peter stutters. “I did not.”

“You don’t want to marry Gwen?”

“That’s not-- No. I mean-- I just-- We’ve only been dating for eight months.”

Ned simply stares at him, baffled. “How long do you have to be dating to know you want to marry someone?”

“I don’t know! A year! At least!” He punctuates each exclamation with an emphatic jazz-hand-esque gesture of distress. 

“So, in four months, you’ll want to marry Gwen? Isn’t that kind of arbitrary?”

Peter runs a hand through his hair. “What do I do?”

“Talk to her,” Ned says, easy. Mature. He’s definitely ready to get married. 

Peter, on the other hand, is starting to feel all sweaty and anxious. Not in a good, happy, excited way, but in a stomach-churning, dreadful kind of way. He loves Gwen, and he’s thought about a future with her, but now that he’s confronted with the possibility of setting that future into motion, he’s unsure, mind flooded with nondescript confusion and doubt. 

He lifts his arms away from his body, feels like his white button-up is going to stick to his armpits and cause large sweat stains. 

“Yeah, yeah, I can do that.”

“She’s doing dishes by herself in the kitchen,” Ned starts, prying the jewelry box from Peter’s hand and re-homing it inside Gwen’s pocket. He holds the windbreaker out. “Talk to her.”

“Okay.” Peter takes it, takes a deep breath. 

“Good luck,” Ned says, patting him on the back before throwing him a thumbs up. 

Peter swallows, heart beating rapidly. He feels a little faint, a little nauseous. Maybe he has the stomach flu, maybe he’s hallucinating, maybe this entire situation is a nightmare and not actually happening. 

He finds Gwen alone in the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. 

“Hey,” she smiles at him, a soft, kind sort of smile that makes Peter’s stomach sink all the way to the earth’s core. 

“Hey.” He holds out the jacket. “This was in my room.”

She takes it. “Is this your way of telling me to go home?”

“No.”

“Okay, because now that we have a moment to ourselves, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Peter hums, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“Wow, okay,” Gwen breathes, adjusting her hold on her jacket. “We’ve had a great time together, and I--”

“True American!” Peter shouts.

Gwen frowns. “What?”

“We have to play True American,” Peter says. Louder: “Come on, everybody!”

“What?” Gwen repeats.

“Ned’s the groom. And the groom gets what he wants. He’s been a real groomzilla.”

“What are you yelling about?” Flash asks as he exits his room. 

“Ned wants to play True American,” Peter says, eyeing Ned frantically when he emerges from the dim hallway like a beacon of hope, followed closely by Michelle and Brad. 

“Uh…”

“He demands we play True American,” Peter says, eyebrows raised, eyes imploring, trying his damnedest to communicate the freak out that’s currently freaking him out. 

“Ah. Yeah.” Ned nods. “I’m using the groom card! True American, baby!”

Peter mouths, “Thank you,” and Ned shakes his head, disappointed.

“True American, First Ladies Edition!” MJ yells. 

“1, 2, 3,4!” Flash calls. “Martha, Abby, Martha!”

Everyone responds: “Lady Bird Johnson!” before chugging their can of beer, crushing the aluminum in their hands, and tossing it toward a stack meant to be the White House garden. It’s not a very environmentally friendly layout.

The game moves swiftly and chaotically, Peter jumping on the couch, a very old copy of the yellow pages, and hopping sideways back toward the coffee table to avoid Gwen. She eyes him from her perch on the dining table, legs swinging over the edge. Peter pivots to look at Flash, standing on a chair in front of the television. 

“Camelot era?” Flash asks.

“Jackie O!” Brad shouts. “Everybody drink!”

Peter takes a long pull of his beer, still feeling entirely too sober, the game doing little to distract him from the ring in Gwen’s possession, from the increasing awareness that he’s going to turn her down. 

Brad stumbles from his cushion, reaching toward a box that collapses underneath him, causing him to slip onto the floor. 

“Lava!” Flash yells. 

“I’m in Mary Todd Lincoln’s sanatorium,” he argues.

“You destroyed her sanatorium,” Ned says.

Michelle smirks. “A courageous way to go out.” 

She nods him over, pressing a brief kiss to his lips as he pouts, muttering about how an empty box wouldn’t hold anybody’s weight. He’s right, but he’s also a sore loser, sulking back toward the kitchen to grab another beer, leaning against the island, and watching the rest of the game play itself out. 

“James Van Der Beek and C. Thomas Howell,” MJ says. 

“Actors?” Flash asks. 

MJ huffs. “Come on, you can do better than that.”

“_Criminal Minds_ villains?” Peter guesses. 

Michelle raises her beer in salute, and Peter returns the gesture, sending a smile her way. 

“That was a gimme for Parker,” Flash counters. 

MJ says, “Shut up. I’m tired.”

Flash sticks out his tongue. Very mature. 

Peter spins in a circle, calculating which move takes him farthest from Gwen. Also very mature. 

When he steps back onto the yellow pages, Ned groans, catching Peter’s eye and shaking his head. “Eleanor and Lorena gay vacation!” he shouts. 

“Ned,” Peter hisses. 

“The count!” he continues. “1, 2, 3, 4!” 

Flash holds three fingers to his forehead, Ned has two, MJ’s flipping the entire room the bird, and when Peter looks at Gwen, refusing to make eye contact, he sees her entire hand splayed, same as his own.

Shit.

“I’m getting married tomorrow, and I need my beauty rest,” Ned hisses at Peter as he pulls the door closed. “Be an adult.”

The door shuts, and Peter turns. 

“I know this is bad?” Gwen asks, unsure about the altered iron curtain rule that caused Peter and MJ so much trouble in the past, repurposed and renamed to, apparently, cause him even more trouble now. “But it’s good, too.”

“Good?” 

“Yeah, I really need to talk to you. I’ve been meaning to do it all night.”

Peter hums, wiping his palms on his pants. 

“Okay,” Gwen says, seemingly to herself. “The last few months have been great--”

“--I can’t marry you.” Peter says. 

“--but I think we should break up,” Gwen finishes. And then: “I’m sorry?”

“You’re breaking up with me?” Peter asks, something squeezing around his heart. His back slides down the door until he’s sitting, cross-legged. 

Gwen sits, too, legs tucked to the side, looking at Peter. “I know the timing is awful. I just didn’t want to wait and ruin the wedding photos.”

“You couldn’t ruin them,” he says, more because he cannot imagine ever wanting to forget their time together, and less because he’s trying to convince her not to dump him. 

“Thanks.” She smiles, a small, chagrined thing. “Miles and his parents got back yesterday.”

“A four day drive?” Peter asks, brain failing to connect the dots, reeling from his own embarrassment, his assumption. 

“Five.” Gwen swallows. “My dad and I had dinner with them last night, and it just felt… right. I felt it here,” she says, pressing her palm against her heart. “I didn’t realize how much I had missed him over the years until he left again. I realized I never wanted to be without him. That I’m in love with him.”

“Yeah.” Peter nods.

Things have been off between them ever since he gave her Miles’s letter. Even though she claimed nothing was there, something had already shifted, unnameable but perceptible. Peter wondered if it was because he had only prepared for an end to their relationship and was greeted with affirmation and love instead. Now he knows it wasn’t just him, but the both of them, coming to the same conclusion from different forks in the road. 

It makes sense. 

He knew Gwen and Miles made sense from the first time he saw them together, from the first time he heard her say his name. 

“I’m sorry,” Gwen says. 

“Me too.” Peter runs a hand through his hair, remembering the ring in her pocket. “So, you’re engaged?”

“No,” Gwen shakes her head. “I’m holding it for Max.” 

“Oh.”

“You thought I was going to propose to you?” she asks, a quiet guilt smeared through the words. 

Heat floods Peter’s face, and he shakes his head in disbelief. “Yeah. Seems like a really stupid conclusion to jump to, huh?”

“It’s a good thing I didn’t, because you were gonna say, ‘No.’”

“Yeah. I was.”

Gwen presses her lips together, smoothing her blue dress over her knees. “I’m sorry you won’t have a date for the wedding, but I’ll see you next month for the staff meeting.”

It hits Peter sideways, pain pulsing in his chest. It’s not overwhelming, though, and that’s good. Necessary. He’ll be able to leave this room and hold it together, tell his roommates (and Brad, and then everyone at the wedding) that Gwen couldn’t make it. He’ll be able to avoid making a spectacle of himself and his heartache. He’ll focus on Ned and Betty and a love that’s still being tended, roots deepening and vines growing, twisting around all their friends to form a new family. 

Peter’s going to be okay.

Ned wins True American because of the groom card, and everyone disperses to go to sleep while Peter walks Gwen out, the jacket with the ring tucked over her arm. Their exhaustion keeps them quiet, an ache behind Peter’s eyes as he presses the button to summon the elevator.

“I’m happy for you,” he says.

Gwen tilts her head as she looks at him. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

“I actually do.”

He does. 

“Thanks.” When she smiles, the sadness still tilts the corners, but he knows it’s because she loved him, cared about him, and there’s a bittersweetness to their relationship as it changes -- not ends, because they’re still colleagues, and hopefully they’ll find a way to be friends, too. 

The elevator dings, doors opening, and Peter watches her walk in. “Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“Why couldn’t you marry me?”

He rocks on the balls of his feet, shoving his hands into his pants’ pockets. “I don’t-- I don’t know.”

Her eyes wash over him, gaze firm. “You know.”

“I don’t.” He frowns. He knows he couldn’t have said yes, but he doesn’t know why. He loves her. Loved her? No, he loves her. 

She presses the button for the lobby. “Yes, you do. Even I know.”

“You know?”

“Yeah.” The elevator doors begin sliding closed.

“How can you know? What is it?”

“Come on, Peter. You know.” 

“I don’t know. What is it?”

A beat passes, a sad acceptance in her eyes, other feelings that Peter can’t place, too many of them all at once. 

Gwen speaks, two simple syllables: 

“It’s MJ.”

Peter doesn’t blink, frozen, and the elevator doors click shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Main _New Girl_ episodes used: 5x16: Helmet, 5x20: Return to Sender, 5x21: Wedding Eve.


End file.
